


The Fall of Angels

by Snowgrouse



Series: Devilry [3]
Category: A Woman's Face (1941), Original Work
Genre: 1940s, 24/7 (temporary), Age Difference, Ageplay, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Gaping, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Anal Sex (female receiving), Anal pissing, Anal-oral, Anal-oral fetish, Androgynous male character, Androgyny, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bathroom Sex, Bestiality, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blasphemy, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Bondage, Breathplay, Brothels, Caning, Cannibalism, Choking, Clothespegs, Comeplay, Comeshitting, Confessions, Corsetry, Costume Kink, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Couch Sex, Crossdressing, Cruising, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dancing, Dark Het, Darkfic, Decadence, Degradation, Diablerie, Dirty Talk, Dominant Androgynous Male Character, Dominant Male Character, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Dreams and Nightmares, Drooling, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Enemas, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Farewells, Felching, Female Ejaculation, Female sexual agency, Femdom, Femslash, Fetish, Fisting, Foursome - F/F/F/M, Frottage, Gangbang, Genderbending, Genderfuck, Genital Shaving, Genital Torture, Gentleness, Gigolos, Gore, Graphic Violence, Group Sex, Hair-pulling, Hard BDSM, Healing Sex, Het, Het and Slash, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Heterosexual Anal Sex (male receiving), Historical, Homosexuality, Horny Teenagers, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Incest, Institutionalised violence, Institutions, Intelligent Submissive Female Character, Leashes, Lesbian Anal Sex, Lesbianism, Literate Perverts, Love Letters, Luxury, M/M, Makeup, Masturbation, Mental Illness, Mirror Sex, Mommy Issues, Multi, Murder, Necrophilia, No knowledge of source media needed for reading, Office Sex, Older Man/Younger Man, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Opium, Oral Sex, Orgy, Other, Out of Body Experiences, Oversized toys, POV Bisexual Character, Past Sexual Abuse, Pederasty, Pegging, Perfume, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Phone Sex, Pinching, Poison, Power Dynamics, Prison, Prostitution, Psychiatric Abuse, Public Sex, Pyromania, Queer Het, Rape, Rape Fantasy, Rape Recovery, Rape Roleplay, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Rimming, Romance, Romanticism, Rough Sex, Scat, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Roleplay, Slapping, Slash, Slow Dancing, Smoking porn, Snowballing, Spanking, Spiritual sex, Spit Kink, Strap-Ons, Stripping, Submissive Female Character, Suicide, Suicide Pact, Suit Porn, Suit Sex, Switching, Tail Buttplugs, Tenderness, Terminal Illnesses, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Trampling, Tuxedos, Uncle/Niece Incest, Underage - Freeform, Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wet & Messy, Whipping, World War II, ass to other person's mouth, can be read as a standalone/original fic, candlelight sex, costume porn, daddy/daughter, dubcon, elegance, elegance fetish, extreme anal play, glamour, glamour fetish, golden showers, heterosexual anal sex, human urinal, incest (consensual), occultism, striptease, tattooing, toilet sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:16:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 15
Words: 100,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Torsten and Laura know their song is coming to an end, their lust and their rage are unstoppable. Together, they set out to avenge themselves against a society that had sought to suffocate their desires--and to enjoy each last one of the world's pleasures to the fullest.</p><p>
  <i>Torsten was the Devil's gift to me, the greatest blessing I had ever known. He was the older, male half of my own self, the most perfect father, brother, friend and lover I could ever have hoped for. It was true that he had brought me up in his own image, but as it was an image that was identical to what had already lain dormant in me, he had been serving but Nature itself, serving my best interests, and I couldn't have been more grateful.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>In his sickness, he had been the healthiest alternative for me; in his perversion, he had protected my inborn deviant nature; in his insanity, he had been the only thing that had kept me sane. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>He noticed I was shivering and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Laura."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I clutched at my father's pale hand, the hand of beauty, the hand of power, the only hand that could set me free. "Bind me."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Explicit porn trailers for the fic [here,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4129224) and a worksafe teaser [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4125505)

_I, who alone have understood thee,_  
_Find in thy heart my mercy seat,_  
_My shrine, mine altar; I have wooed thee,_  
_To lay my glory at thy feet._

_Give me thy love--for thee is waiting_  
_Eternal life for earthly span,_  
_For I in loving, as in hating,_  
_Am great like God--not weak like man._

_And I, free son of ether, take thee_  
_To far dominions high above_  
_The stars of Heaven, and I will make thee_  
_Queen of the world, my deathless love._

**_-The Demon, Mikhail Lermontov_ **

***

I am seven years old.

I am seven years old, and I am just returning home from school. It's been my very first day at school, in fact; bewildering, exciting, strange. I am exhausted, so exhausted as I wipe the dust of the road off my clothes, off my too-short hair that I don't like. I was a big girl now, they'd said as they'd cut my hair--that awful pageboy bob all Swedish girls wore then--and dressed me in new clothes. A white piqué shirt and a short white pleated skirt, so well-cut the other children had jeered at me, telling me this was a school, not a tennis court.

I am in a black mood as I enter through the door, slouching as I drop my backpack and begin to undo my shoes. Yet something makes me pause: it's an unusual smell, as if of cologne and perfume combined. I am greeted by the lightness and sweetness of fruits and flowers, which then become submerged by the masculine blue freshness of musk and bergamot. When I look up, there's a light fedora on the hat shelf, and a massive coat hanging from a peg underneath it: this is where the scent emanates from, and now the smell of cigarettes joins it.

Grandfather only ever smokes a pipe; this flavour of tobacco is lighter, far less dark and bitter, the type of cigarette women smoke. I think upon it, think, deduce like a detective would as I undo my shoelaces, swish, swish, and my ankles hurt from the day, from going up and down the stairs at school. I take off my socks, and true enough, my ankles have been rubbed raw.

The floorboards creak, and I turn around to see who it is, but then I am being lifted from behind, up, up, spun in the air. I am frightened out of my wits, picked up by this strange man, shrieking as he spins me and spins me as if I were a doll. 

"Let me go!"

He just laughs and sets me down, turns me to face himself. "What's the matter, Laura Erika? Don't you recognise me?"

And as he laughs, laughs at me he reveals teeth crooked, eyelashes so long they make his eyes appear kohled, his eyes the blue of midwinter dawns.

"Uncle Torsten!"

He smiles and cocks his hips, bounces his weight from one foot to another in that funny way that always makes me laugh, the way that always makes Grandfather glare at him sternly. 

"Is it the moustache?" he asks.

He does look older. But his moustache isn't Grandfather's bristling walrus moustache; only the sort you would see in film magazines, invariably on the sorts of men they call cads. I had asked Grandfather what a cad was, but he had snatched the magazine from me and told me he would explain later.

He never did. But Torsten never behaves this way with me, never keeps secrets from me, never thinks I am stupid because I am not a grown-up. He will tell me.

"Are you a cad, Uncle Torsten?"

He purses his mouth in an exaggerated pout and flicks up his eyes, pretending to think, in a way that always makes me laugh, too. It makes him look like a pin-up--another word Grandfather had refused to explain to me--those women who make strange expressions as they pose in small swimsuits and whose sharp breasts look as if they are about to poke through their jumpers. And Uncle Torsten loves amusing me so: in this, we have our own, secret language; something the ordinary, boring adults are not party to.

"Ooh, perhaps," he finally answers, thrusting his hands into his pockets, smirking like the Devil. "But only very naughty men are called that. Depends on how naughty you think I am."

His grin makes me uneasy, making something in my stomach tremble in fear and delight. If he is naughty, then I must be naughty, too, because we are so alike. But naughty or not, I like it. We are different from the others, and as such, we should stick together: I don't think I will make any friends at school. 

"I'm _hungry,_ " I tell him and slip my hand into his, dragging him towards the kitchen. "Let's get some sandwiches."

He laughs, laughs from the bottom of his belly and follows me.

When he leaves, my happiness leaves with him. He says he has to discuss business with Grandfather, says he will be back later in the evening. He kisses me on the cheek, and his moustache sends a strange tingle down my body, like a tickle but more intense, something I have only rarely felt.

For hours, I try to focus on my new textbooks, but they frustrate me. I already know how to read, and the chapters seem too short, too condensed in comparison to the books I have already been reading on biology, geography, science. I feel suffocated within these books; they are too small for me, trying to drag me down to the level of the other children, most of whom seem several years younger than me, far below myself in intelligence. This is one of the first memories I have of that feeling: the realisation that I am older than most, smarter than most, more passionate than most. I feel a terror and a gloom settling over me: this is what I will have to be doing every day from now on, enduring school, enduring other children, tyrannical teachers until the day I turn eighteen.

I set my books down and leave for the living room, still restless. There's nobody there; there hardly ever is. The plush, brown sofa is far softer than my bed is, and the way it faces the windows always makes it incredibly warm in the evening light. So many afternoons and evenings have I slept curled up upon it, completely buried underneath a blanket, imagining I was safe in the nest of a great bear, held in his soft, brown, golden warmth. I wouldn't have to emerge for months and months from my winter sleep, I thought, a thought that always consoled me. Sometimes I would even steal honey from the kitchen and eat it with my fingers underneath the blanket, and the servants tolerated this, Grandfather only smiling at my play.

But now, I don't want to sleep. The tickling Uncle Torsten has left inside of me, this tickling, tingling inside of my belly and in my spine is growing stronger, like an itch I can't scratch because I can't reach inside of my body. It has never been this strong, and there's only one thing that's helped a tingle like this before: therefore, I straddle the arm of the sofa. I spread my skirt carefully around it, so that I won't ruin the pleats, and begin to rub myself against the hardest part of the arm. And the shudder that goes through me, now, makes me shake; I have to bite my lip so as not to moan. I know what I am doing is naughty, forbidden, something Emma always smacks me for, pulls my hair for. Yet she doesn't understand that I _must_ do this, that this is a medicine, a relief for an internal pain that's far greater than that of any of her punishments. I hurt down there, hurt, and only this will dissolve the ache.

A shadow falls upon the yellow squares of light from the windows; it's that of a man smoking a cigarette, leaning against the doorframe.

"Laura, Laura," Torsten tuts, but his voice is warm, not truly scolding; he seems amused.

Gasping, I stop, my heart pounding. I don't know what to say. Will Torsten understand? Would he understand? He might be the only one who could understand.

He just stumps his cigarette and sits next to me on the sofa, looking at me, a strangely admiring gaze, taking in my body. No man has ever looked at me that way before, and a strange sort of pride uncurls within my chest, a strange tremor joining that of the tingling. 

He flicks his fingers idly through the hem of my skirt, then smiles at me gently, sweetly, lost in thought. "You're going to break so many hearts one day, I can tell."

I don't know what to say to that, either. I just sit there, embarrassed, yet I don't want to leave him, the warmth of his gaze.

"Come," he says, patting his thigh. "It'll feel even better if you sit on this."

"You've done this?" I blurt out. "But I thought--"

"Boys do it, too. It's just a little different. Come, and I'll help you. I promise not to tell anyone." 

I knew Torsten would understand! My heart skips, leaps in delight, and I almost kiss him--I know that's what a grown woman would do. He sighs happily and leans back as I balance my knees on the sofa and straddle his thigh. It's a thigh bony, hard, thin underneath his pinstriped suit, the woollen fabric rough against my own bare thighs.

"Comfortable?" he asks, his hands soft upon my hips, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

I am flushed all over; my chest feels as if it's about to burst and I can't breathe. My pulse pounds in my ears so loudly I can barely make out my own words. "Yes."

"Rub yourself against me. Ride my thigh, just like you rode the arm of the sofa; that's it, go on," he says.

And the look in his eyes as I do so--oh, I am going to die here, that's how happy his smile makes me. It feels _wonderful_ to do this against another person, against the warmth of his body; I love it, and he loves it, too, the afternoon sun glittering in his eyes. He understands this game nobody else understands, doesn't think me bad for it and I love him for this, adore him for this. We have found a new game, another secret game that sets us apart from the others, above the others.

"You know the best games, Uncle Torsten," I laugh, and now my rocking brings me so close to him I can feel the heat of his face and chest against mine.

"Naughty people always do," he says, and now his hands steal underneath my skirt, toying with the front of my panties. "Do you know what naughty people call this thing girls have down here, this thing you were rubbing?"

I don't want to seem stupid. They certainly won't call it a 'wee-wee' like the adults do, or a 'fanny' like an English nurse had once called mine, or a 'vulva,' like the medical books do. And I am sure he is about to tell me. "No."

"Well, on a grown woman, it's called a 'pussy,'" he says, that word wonderfully wet, slithering sweetly out of his mouth, sticky, juicy. "But since you are just little, still all smooth..." suddenly, he bounces his knee so violently I am thrown against his body; I have to brace my hands against his chest so as not to fall off. "Do you know what a cad would call this thing?"

"Stop teasing me!" I tell him, tossing my hair from my face. 

He lifts up my skirt and looks at my panties, and a veritable _convulsion_ goes through him. He closes his eyes and _inhales,_ sighs in ecstasy.

"Candy." He opens his eyes and they glimmer with wickedness, with happiness. "That's what you've got down there."

Oh, God. This is wrong; I know this. This is utterly wrong, this is something an adult should not be doing to a child; I have heard of candymen, and perhaps this was what they'd meant by that word. But I can't stop; I hurt too much to stop. I enjoy this too much, oh; I can't stop now. This must be one of those things grown-ups were wrong about, tried to keep from me because they didn't understand how good it felt. I look down at myself, at the round mound of my sex pressed against his thigh, the way I am rubbing myself against him, and shudder. 

_Candy._ This makes sense--it smells sweet, so sweet, and it has tasted sweet whenever I've rubbed it with my fingers and then held my fingers to my nose and my mouth.

"Candy," I say out loud, laughing in his lap.

He moans in delight, pulls me against himself, his other hand stealing to my buttocks. "That's right," he croons. "And I'm going to make your little candy feel so good," he says, "so good."

"Torsten," I gasp, because I can barely breathe, but I don't want him to stop. The tingling is now unbearable, the way he crushes me against himself with one arm, his other hand still playing at my panties, and I think I'm going to faint. "Please, please, don't stop; please do something. I'm hurting. Please."

"Are you aching?" he pants, and there is something hard in his trousers, something that's not his wallet; he is now rubbing himself against me, a caricature of an adult bouncing a child on his knee, violent, frantic. "Because I'm aching, too, Laura," he groans feverishly.

"Yes," and now I want to cry, clutching at his jacket.

"Then, don't stop, my child," he growls, and now the hand that had but played at my panties reaches between my buttocks and presses there, presses against my anus through the cotton, the strangest of sensations. "Does that help?"

But now, I am falling, shouting into his suit, the tingling swirling into my entire body and this helps, it does, but I can't tell him; I am shaking too much. I sob against his chest, and I can smell something unpleasant, something like lye, and his fingers are hurting me, but I am free. All tension leaves me and I fall slack in his arms, fall slack into his embrace, still swirling, pulsing, humming, but I feel so much better.

There's a wet stain on his trousers, and he looks down at it and laughs, short of breath. "I think you helped me, too."

"Can I see it?" I ask, because now I am curious, want to see where that smell comes from, the thing that had grown so hard in there.

He kisses my cheek and pulls out his handkerchief. "I would love to show you my candy, too, but we don't have time. Your grandfather would find out, and you must never tell him we did this, or he will send me away forever. Do you understand?" 

"I do," I mumble, hanging my head. His haste hurts me, but I know he's right: it's late, and Grandfather usually comes down around this time to sit and drink by the fire. And I would not have him send Torsten away, so I climb off and straighten out my skirt, straighten out my hair.

Torsten looks down at me and in the evening light, I am sure I have never seen a man so handsome, a man as beautiful as a woman. He strokes my cheek and looks at me with such happiness in his eyes it makes me ache. 

"My little accomplice. I promise to come back for you one day, and take you to Stockholm, and then we'll have some _real_ fun together, you and I."

"You swear?" I am holding back tears again, my lower lip wobbling.

He kisses me, right on the mouth, swift but sweet; a kiss that tastes of cigarettes and cognac. "I swear."

***

I woke up in a bedroom not my own: not the familiar red, Latin warmth of the bedcovers and tapestries enclosing me in their womb, but the harsh, stark, clinical white of a hospital, I the babe torn out of its mother's body. 

And like a newborn, my first instinct was to scream. Yet my throat was dry and very little sound would come out, and when I tried to move my hands, I felt straps around my wrists, ankles. Straps, straps--a new game invented by Torsten, perhaps--no, no, Torsten was in jail, and that was the last thing I remembered. Oh, my head, my throat, my head--all dry and rough and full of pain, my memory smashed to pieces. I remember the mobsters, I remember their oversized suits, I remember the police raiding the nightclub. Torsten, Torsten! I had _told_ him not to get himself mixed up with the mob, had told him not to gamble, but he had, he had, and--

"Good morning, Mrs. Morgonstierna."

There was a man at the door, a doctor going by his white coat and arrogance, and now he nodded to a fat nurse who proceeded to relieve me of my straps. _What's the meaning of this?_ I wanted to scream, yell; _who gave you the right to treat me like this? Don't you know who I am?_ But even in my delirious state, I realised the gravity of the situation and knew I had to protect myself at all costs.

"Where am I?" There, a neutral enough question.

"At the Frith Institute." The doctor smirked in a self-satisfied manner. "You were very lucky to have ended up here. I like to think that our methods are more... modern, shall we say, than those practiced at most sanatoriums."

An asylum. I was in an asylum. And they must have drugged me, I realised; I should have been more shocked and my heart should have been galloping by now, yet I took in all of this as if from behind a thick wall of glass. And I couldn't remember a thing about what had happened after the raid, after they had taken Torsten away.

"How did I get here?" I mumbled. "Why can't I remember?"

Again, that awful, smug smirk spread on the doctor's face. He sat next to me, and from his badge, I could read his name: Dr. Segert, Director. He was somewhere in his forties, bland with a nondescript, pudgy face, thinning hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. His manner was that of the hero-doctor, the type who knows it all, the type who talks down to everyone he meets, thinking himself smarter than everyone else as he administers poisons, kills his patients with his hubris.

I loathed him immediately, and sure enough, he saw this; he looked down upon me with the condescension of a teacher observing a problem child.

"The therapies we employ here often cause minor amnesia. Sometimes this is only beneficial if a depression has been caused by trauma or if a manic would rather forget the things he did during a relapse."

"And which one am I?" I snapped. "Tell me. I have the right to know."

He kept on smiling to himself; I could not help but think his lips were the hideous, glossy purple of an old man's penis. "Overdose. Your maid called the ambulance. We found you collapsed on your living room floor. Once we were sure the drugs had left your system, we employed deep sleep therapy, combined with a series of electroshock treatments. Our standard procedure in such situations. And I must say, you look all the better for it."

 _The bastards._ They must have thought I had been suicidal, but now it all came back to me. I had been hysterical after Torsten's arrest: I had been drinking heavily, consuming all the drugs we had left in order to calm myself down. I had not been eating for days, and had miscalculated the doses. I had been so stupid, so stupid, just as Torsten had been so stupid, and now we were both paying the price.

"It was an accident," I said quietly, staring at my hands. "I wasn't trying to kill myself."

Of course, Segert didn't believe me. "I'm sure you didn't. Nevertheless, we are keeping you here for close monitoring."

I could practically hear a prison door closing behind me, keys being turned in a lock. I swallowed. "How long?"

He laughed a little in his throat, incredulous, as if my asking this had been preposterous. "Until _I_ deem you fit for release."

Of course, of course. I glared up at him. "Is this because of--" I almost said 'Torsten,' but held my tongue at the last minute. "Is this because of my husband? I swear I know nothing."

He raised his eyebrow. "Mr. Morgonstierna is still awaiting trial. However, the police and I are in agreement that you were a danger to yourself and others. You assaulted an officer, in case you have forgotten."

"But you can't do this!" I exploded, throwing the covers off myself. "I am innocent, and so is he, I--"

Segert nodded to the fat nurse. With a wrestler's strength, she pinned me down as he administered an injection. I stared up at her moustache, at the mole on her upper lip, so dizzy I couldn't even cry even if inside, I was howling, weeping, wailing like a banshee. I was still howling as the drug swirled into my veins, golden and soft, like a pillow being held over my face, silencing me, suffocating me.

"I want my Daddy," I murmured, in Swedish, and my eyelids were too heavy to stay open.

"Orphaned," Segert said to the nurse, the voice of a scientist making an observation, devoid of empathy. "Bring the catether. I'm putting her back on Somnifen." He turned to me and petted my hair, talking to me in Swedish: "You rest now, young lady. In another three days you should be right as rain."

The room swam around me; I barely felt any pain in my urethra before I passed out again, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

There is no calendar on the wall; I don't know how many days I've been asleep for, but I know I have lost weight. The bathroom mirror shows me a woman crumbling, the construct of Diana Morgonstierna peeling and cracking, revealing the shadow of Laura Erika Barring underneath. I see long blond roots in my hair where my henna has grown out, and I am paranoid that it will give my true identity away, even if I know most women dye their hair for non-sinister reasons.

I had a friend here, Therese, a beautiful young negress. She was schizophrenic, they told me, yet I found her lucid; when she was swimming in the euphoria of sedatives, she told me of her child. Of how her white boss had raped her, repeatedly, how she had defended herself against him, how they had thought her mad, delirious. How she had given birth to a beautiful baby boy--she still remembered him, despite the procedures they had performed on her, she said, tapping at the scar upon her temple. 

"Da colour of cream coffee, he was, but dey says I was pollutin' da race, y'see," she said. "Took 'im away, like dat. Took my womb, too," she said, "like dat," making a snipping movement with her fingers. "But the Lord's callin' to me, and I know he'll be reunitin' me an' my boy real soon. Real soon, Diana, you just wait an' see." 

And sure enough, they took Therese from me. They had found us embracing, kissing; had found us touching each other, clinging to each other for warmth. They said we were perverts, said that she was a bad influence on me, said that this matter would be taken care of. They took her away and gave me more shocks, punching more holes in my memory, erasing a kiss here, a touch there, saying they would soon have burnt the stain of sexual deviance from me. Now, I no longer remember whether I had known Therese for days or weeks. But every time I close my eyes, I can still see her brilliant white smile, hear her humming her favourite hymn, of the Heavenly Father coming to take her home.

When is my Heavenly Father going to come and take me home?

Segert tells me I'm making progress, that I'm a model patient, and soon he takes a liking to me; he stares at my breasts as he tells me these things. He takes me to his office and tells me about himself, of how he used to be a plastic surgeon--and how he soon saw most of his patients were more deformed on the inside, so he took to psychiatry and neurosurgery instead. Creating a face anew was nothing when you could resculpt, reshape a person's soul, he said. In this, he said, he was doing God's work, bettering society, ridding it of unwanted elements.

Proudly, he shows me his case files, of gibbering maniacs pacified through leucotomies, of homosexuals and masturbators cured through castrations, newspaper clippings declaring 'Gustaf Segert' a byword for progress in Germany.

I sit there and listen to him quietly, just as I lie underneath him quietly. His penis is too small to give me acute pain, his new miracle drugs soon curing the infections he gives me ("cystitis is quite normal after extensive catetherisations," as if it wasn't his stinking bush of pubic hair, his own lesioned, spotted cock that gives me these infections over and over), and now there are scars on my lower belly. I have been given a salpingectomy, he tells me, a removal of the Fallopian tubes, for as pretty as I am, as Aryan as I am, I am unfit, too feeble-minded to reproduce.

At night, in my bed, I laugh inside, for this Frankenstein, this Caligari, this puppeteer who thinks himself a demiurge has liberated me. In sterilising me he has given me relief from my greatest fear: that of pregnancy. I cry into my pillow in thanks as I await my Heavenly Father's return. Silently I weep, as silently as I play with my pussy, pushing a finger inside my ass. It's the only way I can orgasm, now, the barbiturates having numbed my clitoris so much, a finger curling in my ass, the only place Segert hasn't taken yet, curling until it's dirty, so I can taste it to remind myself of my Father.

My ass no longer tastes sweet; they are giving me sugar instead of saccharine. I grow fatter, lazier, but that makes Segert cut down on the sedatives, declaring I no longer need deep sleep therapy. Yet I still hear him using the word "unfit" behind my back, and now that they have removed my silver bracelets, my collar and my cuffs, it is my abnormality I decorate myself with. Each declaration of myself as "unfit," each "feeble," each "pervert" sets me above the rest, and I wear each one like a diamond, stringing them into garlands upon my neck to replace the ornaments they stole from me. And in my perversion, I sparkle and shine bright, bedecked in cascades of jewels like an ancient courtesan.

Sometimes I pretend to pray in the hospital chapel; they use myrrh in their incense. Myrrh, the fragrance of incest; in my mind, I recite the myth I had learned by heart from Grandfather's books. Myrrha, just like I, just like I--she desired her father, Cinyras, bore Adonis for him. The gods took pity upon her, changed her into a tree. And still she stands, weeping fragrant tears for her forbidden love, and _this_ scent, the scent of incest, the Christians think sacred! I laugh out loud in the chapel, and oh, if they only knew why!

I hallucinate Torsten so often it's hard to tell whether the few news I hear from him are things I dreamt up or true. I spit on my pillow at night and rub my face in it as I masturbate, imagining my spit his sperm, his sweet, delicious sperm. I write letters to him, calling him Nicolas, darling husband, begging for him to take me home. I dream of him at the train station at Forssa, the way he had laid his hand on my shoulder and kissed my head, the day he had come to rescue me from my imprisonment. 

So when I hear his voice on the telephone, I can not quite believe it. His voice sounds older, more broken, but it's him, it's him; I can barely speak for my tears. I want to say so many things to him, but can't; Segert is listening. But Torsten tells me he's had a good lawyer, has been declared innocent, and all charges have been dropped. He is free, and he is on his way to take me home. 

Segert hits me that night, jealous, takes me until I bleed. I only close my eyes and think of Torsten's blows, how he would hit me much harder, how he would make me come with his hands, his blessed hands, his cock so much bigger, harder, brutal at the root of my womb, where Segert never reaches.

Soon, you will be home, Laura Erika, soon; just one more night.

The morning is wet, misty, filled with smog. Pale, Torsten appears at the wrought iron gates, so thin underneath his huge coat and his hat; his eyes are full of sorrow. He looks ten years older, and my heart lurches as I lurch, stagger towards him, not having worn my heels for weeks. Will he be able to save me this time? Heal me this time? Some scars are forever; some things cannot be mended once they've been broken--how much of me is there to salvage, now?

"Laura," he whispers as he wraps his coat around me and holds me tight, and I can feel he is shaking. 

"Call me that again," I murmur against his chest. For had it not been Diana who had overdosed, Diana they had drugged, shocked, violated? Not Laura, no, never Laura Erika, never this little girl now weeping openly in her father's arms.

"Laura, Laura, Laura," he says with grave solemnity, understanding this perfectly, telepathically, calling me back to myself.

Laura is still far away, just as she had been when Segert had been inside of her, watching everything from outside her body, from somewhere high above. But now, this blonde girl in her father's arms lifts her head and listens. This body feels cold, full of pain, but the ghost of Laura forces it into movement, forces it to respond to her father's embrace.

"Never leave me again, Daddy," she whispers, "never, ever."

"Not until the day I die," Daddy says, wiping his tears with his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A NSFW illustration of Laura dreaming of Torsten in the hospital [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/121713613478/i-cry-into-my-pillow-in-thanks-as-i-await-my)


	2. Chapter 2

There was a numbness, a haze that characterised our re-emergence into life from our respective imprisonments. Neither of us initiated sex for the first few days; we were too busy learning how to eat, wash, sleep, too busy resettling in our home. We slept in the same bed each night, holding each other, but fully clothed in our pyjamas; both of us too cold, too fatigued to even think about sex.

I knew Torsten had his reasons. I knew what they did to men like him in prison, knew only trauma of that level could make such a flamboyant man turn introvert, and this terrified me. Torsten had been the force that had been holding me together each and every time I had broken down, but now he had been broken himself--and at the present moment, he was still picking up the pieces. 

When he came into the bathroom and saw me bleaching my hair, he smiled; he began to shave and I realised he was not touching his upper lip. With little things like these, we reclaimed ourselves piece by piece; I had missed the cad with the thin moustache as much as he had missed his little blonde girl. True, these were superficial things, yet they were essential parts of the Torsten and the Laura that had gone missing, signposts on the road back towards our true selves.

I kept myself busy, served him because this helped me forget my own pain: I gave the maid days off and polished Torsten's shoes, ironed his shirts myself. He, in turn, spent entire days in the garden tending to his flowers, rescuing what he could from the ravages of neglect.

And then there was the music, the endless music. He would spend hours playing the grand piano, hammering out the most tempestuous, Romantic pieces with vigorous fury. He would not talk to me about what he had gone through, but let it all out through the music, sometimes playing long into the night.

At first, I adored it, but soon the music began to overwhelm everything, suffocating me underneath itself and depriving me of sleep, and I knew we couldn't go on like this.

I stormed into the living room in my nightgown; it was one o'clock at night. I took him by the shoulders and spun him around, plucked the cigarette from his mouth and stamped on it.

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" I shouted in his face.

"But I thought you liked Chopin," he said, and his smile was awful, dead, the sky of his eyes gray.

"Not when it's the middle of the _fucking_ night."

His eyes flashed at my language--oh, finally, finally, a reaction! A spark of realisation, an old pattern he recognised, an old trigger.

"What have I told you about the F-word, Laura?" he said with a dangerous softness, and while his powers were not at their peak, I could see Torsten the father emerging, shaking off his slumber.

Yet I was not here to tease him; I truly was furious with him. "I need to sleep." I slammed the lid down over the keys.

He lifted the lid. "And I need to play."

I slammed the lid down so hard the entire piano rang. "Fuck. You."

The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my head ringing, my cheek aching from the force of his slap. I was so happy I could have cried, then; could have wept from joy, but I had to be sure. 

"Fuck you!" I spat out at him.

He but slapped me again, now on the other cheek. Panting, I regarded him and there, there: the blue breaking through the gray as his smile finally reached his eyes. His laughter was broken, yet there was a little warmth underneath it, yes, the heat of the Torsten I used to know. "I have told you to only use that word in bed, Laura," he warned me, then squatted in front of me. "Are you going to apologise?"

I wiped my mouth, delirious as I saw his cock moving within his pyjama bottoms, half-hard underneath the blue silk. And for the first time in months I felt alive, felt my pussy so warm that that warmth now surged into my entire body, hardening my nipples, making all the hairs on my body stand on end.

"I'm waiting, Laura," he sing-songed, his voice finding its tone, the father slotting back into the shell of the man he had been. Overjoyed, I watched as his old power filled his limbs as his blood filled and lifted his cock, and he seemed to grow larger, taller. A man made of potency itself, of power, ready to take, to conquer, just what I wanted, just what I needed, his true self as he should be.

I brought my face close to his, braced my hands on his knees and smiled; my voice, too, found its little girl's pitch, that of the sugary, wicked little brat. Playful, as if a four-year-old who had just learned a dirty word, seen its effect on grown-ups, testing what she could get away with, I grinned at him. 

"Fuck you, Daddy."

With a roar, he grabbed me by the hair and smacked me, both cheeks, over and over until my head rang once more; he laughed, choked from his joy. "Laura, Laura," he crooned, fisted both of his hands into my hair and pressed my burning face to his crotch. "Laura, you have to apologise; otherwise you won't get dessert."

I heard my laughter, like that of crystal breaking, from somewhere far away, my face wet from tears, his cock twitching against my cheek through the silk. "Never," I giggled, inside of myself and outside of myself, shuddering as I undid his pyjamas and took out his cock, suppressing my revulsion at his pubic hair, a sign of his too-long celibacy. It reminded me of Segert, because Torsten and I had always been shaving ourselves for pleasure; I felt myself splintering once more, a schizophrenic thought of _only Diana would be afraid of this, only Diana would have been afraid of this_ swirling through my mind. I pushed Diana aside, cast her out, and swallowed Torsten's cock into my mouth.

He gave up all pretense of sternness, a violent sob making his belly undulate as he curled over me, holding my head to his groin with shaking hands. Was he, too, doing the same thing I was now doing, casting out his abused self, the Nicolas who had been made to serve other prisoners? He must have, he must have, and that's why I didn't play at his ass like I normally would have; I only served his cock as the very picture of the little girl he so loved, the little girl I needed to again become to retain what was left of my, of our sanity.

"Daddy," I gasped against his cock as I pulled back for air, stroking him in my hand, tears running down my face, his shaft.

He cupped my face in his hands, shaking, all the muscles on his face rippling as he thrust into my hand. "Laura, Laura," he keened, heavy tears dangling off his eyelashes, his hips moving reflexively into the pleasure of my hand. As I continued to caress him, he moaned in his throat, shook his head. "I thought I would die there, Laura. I thought I would never see my little girl again," he choked. "I--"

"I'm here, Daddy," I told him and took him into my mouth once more, _I'm here,_ I told him with my tongue, my hand, and at that moment I feared I would die, my chest, my very heart crushed by the enormity of my love for him. But he was coming, now, coming so fast and so soon, and there, that woman's sigh he always made during orgasm: there was not a sweeter sound to my ears in the entire world.

I took him to bed. I lit two red candles in the altar alcove which I now opened for the first time since our return, just as our relationship had been reopened. Our previous selves were still there in the photographs, twisted and lax, hard and wet, soft and fierce; patiently, they had been waiting for us, to remind us of what was at our core. The true, demonic force of our passion, the Barring perversity that knew no bounds, a love so true, so dark, so fathomless few mortals could ever even hope to experience anything like it.

He wanted to lick me, wanted to take me, but I asked him to wait until tomorrow: it had to be done right. He understood me, just as he had always understood me, again sliding into that telepathic, overlapping consciousness I remembered sharing with him ever since childhood, the conjoined mind an identical twin shared with her sister. 

We took opium together, lay there for long hours, the drug taking the worst edge off the pain of our memories, enabling us to finally tell each other of our experiences. Boldly, we probed each other with questions, lancing the boils, squeezing, sucking, kissing out the pus, rubbing love into the wounds, cauterising them with our twin hatreds for the society that had inflicted them upon us. It was as I had expected: he had been used by other men, even though at times he had even enjoyed it, so used to perverting abuse into pleasure when other boys had bullied him, used him as a youth.

The opium made my face feel heavy; his eyes no longer stayed open, but he continued to speak. "You asked about the scar, so I might as well tell you. I was in a similar institution in Stockholm--I was very lucky to escape with just a vasectomy." He laughed, a dry, barking laugh interrupting the monotone of his voice, as if he were narrating a film about someone else. "It was always like that at school, at university--mostly, I was the victim rather than the predator, but I behaved more like a girl, so that's why it was I who was punished, as if I was somehow more homosexual than the others. Boys relieving tension, they could understand, but not tenderness; it was the sight of me kissing, not sodomising another boy that made them decide I should be locked up."

I shuddered. "I am not surprised."

"Your grandfather, bless his soul, intervened. They were this close to castrating me completely, but he pleaded on my behalf. He agreed I wasn't completely normal, but that marriage might tame me; however, the hospital had decided I shouldn't pass my genes on. So they reached a compromise." He made a snipping movement with his fingers, just as Therese had done; the déjà vu of this made me shudder, thinking of just how many hundreds, how many thousands had suffered a fate similar to ours. How many had made that same gesture in their hospital beds, unsexed simply because the world thought one should love only one sex, only one's own race: it turned my stomach. 

"Incidentally," Torsten continued, "that's why old Magnus never truly believed I was touching you; he thought I was only interested in boys."

"When did they let you out?"

"When I lied, just like everyone else does. Did you not lie; pretend you were cured?"

"Absolutely," I murmured, astonished at how well he knew these things; yet this was to be expected. "I told Segert I no longer had visions, no longer saw you standing at the door. And I lied to him about Therese, too; I told him it was she who had seduced me and not the other way round. He believed me, or at least I think he did, because he believed negroes were more promiscuous."

Torsten nodded, washed down another pill of opium with tonic water. "I, in turn, married a lesbian. She needed an alibi, too; after a couple of years they stopped chasing us and we went our separate ways. Your grandfather thought she had died, but she went to Berlin instead." 

"You, a married man?" I laughed incredulously, hysterically. "And they believed it?"

He gave me a mock-insulted pout. "I have always been a good actor, don't forget." 

"I gave Segert the performance of a lifetime, too," I said, lacing my fingers with Torsten's. "He said I was his masterpiece. A fallen girl made wholesome in just a few months, he said. That's why he gave me the penicillin; he said it was more precious than gold, that he could have saved entire lives with it, spared limbs with it, but that he valued my body above those of others."

Torsten ran his hand over my hip, stroking it through the silk of my nightgown. "It is a very beautiful body."

I choked on my tears, shaking my head. "It wasn't his to take."

Torsten kissed my forehead. "He never took your soul. I can feel it, Laura. He never took my little girl," he whispered against my cheek. "Never, ever."

"Promise me you will take me tomorrow," I said, squeezing his hand. "I don't care if you injure me. Just erase him, erase all of him."

"I promise." He kissed my forehead again.

"I feel like a fraud. Here I am, asking you to mend something that I don't even know can be mended, I--"

"Laura." 

"And what about you? Would you ever allow me to--" _To fuck you, to take you,_ I meant to say, but I was crying too much to speak.

"Yes to everything," he said, then closed my mouth with a kiss, a hard, devouring kiss. "I insist on it. Now, quiet."

He slid between my legs and sucked my clitoris until I had stopped crying. I didn't count this as proper sex, not yet, just a relieving of tension; his fingers hurt as they entered my body, but I might as well have been masturbating, that's how well he knew how I needed to be touched. Tomorrow, tomorrow he would reclaim me, I thought as I sobbed and came on his hand; tomorrow I would again be my Daddy's, my Daddy's alone.

***

I lay beside the pool, sunbathing naked in the afternoon sun when Torsten's shadow fell over me.

"You look golden," he purred, stroking his fly, "but not golden enough."

And as he let out a golden stream of piss over me, showering me with its sweetness, tears of joy stopped my throat. My golden hair, my golden skin dripping with his gold, I laughed and stretched luxuriously as he bathed me, Zeus reclaiming his Danaë. 

"Come inside," he said, licking his piss from the peaks of my breasts; "Daddy's got a surprise for you."

***

When he took me to the bathroom and washed me, he had never been as tender, as reverent. We washed each other, shaved each other's genitals carefully, gently; as he knelt before me and kissed the scars on my belly, I jerked involuntarily. 

"It hurts," he said, matter-of fact.

I clung to the side of the bath and knelt before him; the horror of it all made me feel faint. "It hurts," I nodded, strangling a sob that tried to escape my throat. "But it hurts more here," I said, taking his hand and placing it over my heart. "It hurts, Daddy, it hurts so much--"

And now I broke down, broke down completely because of his tenderness; oh, how I wished he had started with violence instead, had beaten this horror out of me. But he let me weep it out, held me even if I beat him with my fists; patient, he allowed me to thrash in his arms. Firmly, he held me as he rinsed my ass for sex; briskly, he dried my hair and wrapped me up in a thick bathrobe.

Yet something in me still struggled, struggled more than I had ever struggled at the hospital; he had to hold my arms until I had screamed, shouted, hurled abuse at him for at least half an hour. I knew how long it had been because he looked at the clock on the wall, then back at me.

"Have you finished?" he asked, calmly.

"No," I spat, a petulant child.

"It makes Daddy very sad to see you like that, Laura," he said, and hearing this frightened me: he had never said anything like this before, had never admitted to weakness when playing the father to me. He sat on the bed in his bathrobe, I kneeling at his feet, naked among the shards of a vase I'd knocked down and broken in my fury.

"Then hurt me," I said, staring at my knees.

He lit a cigarette. "I will. But first things first. Where are your collar and your cuffs, my child?"

I still couldn't look up at him. "Segert took them." I somehow felt it was my fault I no longer possessed them, that I had mislaid them, that I had been a bad daughter. This was absurd, but I couldn't help it; I wondered if he would punish me for it.

"Then we are going to have to make sure that won't happen again. Don't you agree, Laura?"

I nodded, quiet. "Yes."

He lifted my chin; his eyes were dark from grief, but his expression was firm. "I am going to make it all right for you, Laura. But you must let me do it. If you don't believe in Daddy, it will never work, and then Daddy will not be able to help you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said, tears running down my face once more. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. I want to trust you. I want to."

"But you still have your doubts," he nodded and put out his cigarette. "And it's my fault. I admit I've been behaving like an idiot," he said, and he hated saying that, I could tell; he turned his gaze away from me and swallowed his pride, his bitterness, hissing through clenched teeth. "I have been careless." He turned back to me. "But I know now that this is far more important than any thrill that could be had from some brief game of poker. You and I are more important."

His eyes were wet from sorrow; when I didn't respond, he didn't seem to know what else to say, so he kissed me. His kiss was salty from tears, his salt and his sorrow mingling with mine; I sighed softly and kissed him back, swallowing the moan he made into my mouth.

"I believe you, Daddy," I said, because I knew he had to hear it. 

But he had to prove his sincerity to me--and I had to prove I trusted him. We were at an impasse.

He regarded me, regarded the room until his gaze fell on the shards of glass. He bent down to pick one up, lifting it to the light, hissing as he tested it for sharpness; it cut his finger immediately.

"Turn around."

I just stared at him.

"Don't you trust me?" he said, now stern, and I had no choice: I feared that I would break him if I did not do as he asked. And I couldn't bear that; couldn't bear to see my Daddy in pieces, shattered like the pieces of glass that I now brushed away as I knelt with my back to him. 

My heart pounded, yet I forced my voice higher, back to a child's register. "What are you doing, Daddy?"

Gently, oh, so very gently he lifted my hair from my neck and over my shoulders, revealing the nape of my neck. "I am going to mark you, my child," he murmured, solemn, reverent.

And as the glass cut into my neck, I screamed. A shudder went through my body, hardening my nipples even as the agony made me clench my hands into fists. Yet I had to stay still, absolutely still as he carved, tattooed his mark upon my neck: I bit my teeth together, keened low in my throat from the pain but I had to endure it, bear it, stay still so that I wouldn't ruin it.

In but moments, it was over: the pain was so diffused I couldn't tell how large a mark he had made, but even now I knew I would be able to hide it underneath my hair, under collars, necklaces. I swallowed my tears and with a child's eagerness, I asked him.

"What is it, Daddy?"

"A star," he murmured, marvelled, kissing the mark he'd made, licking up my blood. "Come; I will show you."

He led me to the dresser and made me hold up my hair as he showed me the mark through the twin reflections of the dresser mirror and a hand mirror. It was a tiny star, tiny, a downwards-pointing five-pointed star, reminiscent of the pentagrams I had seen in his occult books, signifying the powers of black magic, darkness and animal lust. But when it was this small, it reminded me even more of the sort of star lesbians and homosexuals would have tattooed on their wrists, only in blue, so they could hide it under wristwatches and reveal it when seeking like-minded company.

I asked him which one it was.

"Both," he said, smiling with his bloodied lips, then kissed the cut once more. "Do you want it to be blue?"

I kissed his hand. "Yes." Blue as his eyes, blue as the lake he had first claimed me upon, blue as the ocean of joy I was now floating in, drunk on the pain, the exquisite beauty of it all.

He mixed my blue eyeshadow with ink and smeared it into the star--such a primitive method of tattooing that it aroused me in its savagery. This, I would forever be carrying underneath my designer clothes, underneath my carefully coiffed hair, underneath the pretense of civilised refinement: a symbol of the dark beauty of human nature in all its perversity, its ritualism, its lustfulness. The sign of the witch, the sexual deviant, the wild-woman; everything Segert had tried to erase in me.

With a cry of joy, I leapt into Torsten's arms, hugging him tight, covering him in kisses. "Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. It's beautiful, so beautiful."

He lifted me so that my legs were around his waist and he spun me, spun me and kissed me until we fell onto the bed, laughing, tussling. "You can mark me tomorrow."

"You really mean that?" I said, genuinely astonished.

"Mm-hmm," he nodded.

I shook my head. "Not tomorrow. Now, Daddy." I needed to complete this, to seal this bond perfectly; the ritualism of it required it somehow, and he seemed to understand this, his sense of ritual even stronger than mine.

"Very well." He picked up the shard of glass. "But on the small of the back," he said, throwing off his robe and lying down on his belly upon the bed. "No naughtiness!" he yelped when I kissed his buttocks, settling down between his legs.

But he loved me for it. Soon, I had cut a similar star between the dimples of his hips, just above the cleft of his buttocks. "It's like a blue anemone," I murmured as I smeared the blue paint into it. "Those will be blooming in Sweden soon," I said, then bit my tongue at my sentimentality.

But he forgave me that, gathering me into his arms for a kiss. "We'll go back this year, if you want us to. As a matter of fact, I am getting sick of California myself." He slapped my buttocks. "Now, show Daddy the drawing you made."

And as he looked at his back in the mirror, I could no longer help it: I buried my face in his buttocks in front of the dresser, he adoring the sight of himself so worshipped. I had missed this taste, had missed the metal-salt of his ass for so long I sobbed, but now they were dry, tearless sobs of delight; it was he who trembled more as he grabbed my hair and ground his ass into my face.

"Laura, Laura," he keened, and I could hear the soft slap of his cock against his belly. "I still have that surprise for you, in case you have forgotten."

I pulled back and licked my lips, offering my mouth for him to taste. "Show me."

He took a flat box out of the closet and laid it on the bed. My heart woke up from the sweet torpor the pain had lulled it into; now my pulse was fluttering fast in my throat. A costume, a costume; a pleasure I had not had a chance to indulge in for months. I swallowed and looked up at him. 

"Go on," he smiled. "I will get ready myself. It's a special occasion, after all."

He was gone before I had a chance to say anything; I busied myself making myself beautiful for him, for myself. Before I opened the box, I sprayed on a light perfume and brushed the last of the wetness out of my hair, fluffing up my curls. I did not apply make-up yet, wanting to make sure that whatever I wore matched the costume.

When I opened the box, I nearly passed out from shock. In it, lay a white piqué shirt and a perfectly pleated, white skirt, along with a pair of white socks and panties. But he--oh, God. I held my hand to my mouth. I had only recalled that particular day on the sofa when I had been in the hospital, you see, after the shock therapy had brought out the suppressed memory, but... _he_ hadn't forgotten. 

Torsten had never forgotten. 

And for him to have brought out this costume, today of all days--oh, I could have died from joy there and then. He wanted me innocent, wanted me even before that day he had claimed me upon the pier, wanted the Laura prepubescent so that he might possess me before my breasts had even budded, before the knowledge they had brought me of men and their ways. My hands trembled as I dressed, the act itself rendering me younger, as if no time had passed, as if the evening sun was the very same that had shone through the living room windows.

And in the light of this bedroom's window stood Torsten, silhouetted in the warm light, immaculate in black tie and tuxedo, cigarette in hand.

"You look beautiful," he murmured.

I blushed and looked at my socks, curling my toes. "You look very handsome, too, Uncle Torsten."

He just laughed at that--he did not punish me for not calling him Daddy, as he usually did; he just offered me his hand. "Come."

And what better place indeed than the living room? The long windows bathed the entire room in golden light, and it felt warmer here, warm as I sat into his lap, inhaling his perfume, his cologne. Always the flowers and the musk, the masculine and the feminine luring me in, drawing me to him through this Ariadne's thread of scent, of instinct, the Barring blood rushing through my veins to meet its kind.

Naturally, easily I straddled his thigh, sighed joyous against his chest. "That feels good, Uncle Torsten."

He brushed his hand through my hair, lifting strands of it to the light, admiring its new blondness in the evening sun. "Call me 'Daddy.'"

I looked into his eyes, and he sensed I carried some nervousness within myself still; it would take more than one night to heal me and we both knew it. But I wanted to try, for him; just as he was trying so very hard for me. His fatherhood was all he had, now; the child Laura the only place I could escape to, the only body, the only psyche of mine that remained unviolated. The adult Laura and the playboy Torsten, the constructs of Nicolas and Diana had too much blood on their hands, were covered in too many scars, were hounded from all corners. This, this was the only safe harbour left for us, this play that we now both clung to with unprecedented fervour.

I drew in a deep, shaking breath, trying so very hard not to cry. "Daddy."

He sunk both of his hands into my hair and tightened his fists, lifted me by my hair until it hurt so much tears sprung into my eyes. Gravely, solemnly he stared into my eyes, observed my face, observed my body's stiffening.

"You need pain," he said.

I tried to say "Yes," but the only noise that came out of my mouth was a croak. I swallowed; my mouth was dry. "I need more than that, Daddy," I said, a terrible, greedy, needy confession to make, one I hated myself for, but I had to tell him, had to make sure he knew how much I needed it. 

His eyes flickered, but what took my breath away was how he suppressed his emotion; calmly, he simply brought his other hand to my throat and squeezed, squeezed. For a long while, he held me thus, and I did not signal for him to stop, did not display any of those eyelash-flutters or finger-taps we had agreed upon to stop this kind of play. I wondered if this terrified him, wondered if he cared, until my vision started to fade.

Finally, he let go of my throat and I heaved on top of him, my pussy clenching and clenching as the orgasmic onrush of oxygen shook my body. I felt euphoric, and would have begged for more had he not immediately brought his hand to my throat and started to squeeze once more.

Yet I had to tell him. I had been violated, had been hurt so much that I needed something stronger than what others had given me, needed Torsten's violence to triumph over the violence of others, my father the only man who could truly own me, conquer me, lay waste to me. 

He let go, let go of hair and throat, and I collapsed against him, rubbing my pussy against his thigh frantically. "Make it worse, Daddy," I sobbed, clawing at his chest. "Be worse than they could ever be," I panted against his shoulder, masturbating angrily with his body, as if trying to break myself open by throwing myself against it. "Rape me."

He stilled.

Yet now, I meant what I had said, truly having known the horror of rape, so unlike that girl who had but used the concept as a twisted thought-game when her father had first deflowered her.

Torsten shook, groaned into my shoulder, and I feared he would break; he clawed at my thighs, pulled up my skirt and tore at my panties. "I shall," he growled as he turned me over his knees so that he could spank me, angry, furious. I burned with his words, his touches: each cry of his, each blow of his was full of spite at the men who had done this to me, at the men who had tried to destroy both of us, the blows of his hand burning each one of their maiming, soul-disfiguring touches off my skin.

"Please, Daddy!" I shouted, the very picture of the child crying out for mercy, tears now running down my cheeks as he ripped off my panties and let his hand sing over my buttocks. His ring cut into my skin and it hurt, yet that was not enough for him, not enough for me: he clawed at my buttocks until I was sure he was drawing blood, and as I looked over my shoulder, he had removed a cufflink and was now holding its sharp edge against my ass.

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," he said, and my pussy pulsed as he said it: I convulsed in his arms as he scratched my buttocks with the cufflink, then threw it aside so that it skittered loudly across the floor. As he resumed his blows, I could no longer even weep; I felt his hand was wet, wet from my pussy, wet from my blood, wet from his tears. His tears, his tears; even those he used to punish me, smearing their salt into the welts. This, this was how much he loved me: I lay splayed over the altar of his body a sacrificial offering, breathless, joyous, ecstatic.

He drew back to breathe, and I saw he was looking at his smeared hand, panting, his hair falling loose to his temples. My heart pounding, my pussy so swollen moving around hurt, I sat in his lap once more and took his hand, held it against my cheek.

"I have the best Daddy in the whole wide world," I said, kissing his hand again and again as I undid his fly; "the best, the best, the best."

He was so tired from his exertions, so tired he did not resist, no, only adored me as I sat on his cock, like I should have done so many years ago. My pussy hurt so much, even if I was dripping wet; I hadn't taken anything this big inside of myself in months. I sobbed from the pain, sobbed from the pleasure of it, of the shame of having forgotten the true shape of a cock, the one and only cock I would ever recognise as real: my father's. All other cocks belonged to fools or boys, were but weapons or substitutes; only this beautiful phallus would I ever worship at, only to this prick would I ever willingly offer my body in sacrifice. 

"It hurts?" he said, combing my hair from my face, tender, sweet, nuzzling my face with his lips.

"It wouldn't be right if it didn't," I said, shaking my head, cupping his face in turn, covering his mouth with my kisses. "It feels so good, Daddy. So good."

He brought his hands to my buttocks, whispering sweet honey against my lips. "It will feel even better if you ride it a little, my child. Remember what I taught you about riding? This was what I would have shown you, had we had the time," he grinned.

I burst into laughter, a laughter innocent and wicked, my heart so light that my ribs ached. "Daddy, you're naughty."

"And naughty people always know the best games, don't they?" he said, licking his fingertips, then bringing his thumb to my clitoris. "Go on. Ride me. You always did want a pony, didn't you?"

I laughed even louder now, at the utter ridiculousness of his words; soon we were both cackling like the maniacs we were. And I rode him, laughing, howling as he bit my lips, my neck, stroking my pussy even when his size hurt it, rode him until I was dizzy. 

His hair was now a mess, his bow tie undone, his trousers completely smeared from my pussy. "Laura, Laura," he shook his head. "Look what you've done," he said as he looked down, lifted a string of wetness from my pussy, then lapped it off his fingers.

"You don't look displeased, Daddy."

He leaned back on the sofa, soft and languid from pleasure. "How could I be? It's the sweetest little piece of candy in the world," he said and brought his hand to it again, a gentle caress that made such a violent jolt of pleasure surge through me I nearly fell off him. "The sweetest, sweetest little thing."

I pulled off my shirt and offered my breasts to his mouth. "Please, can I have some more?" I asked, in my sweetest, youngest voice.

"Certainly," he said, lifted me up by the buttocks and carried me to the bedroom as if I weighed nothing, he as strong as ever. This act always broke my heart with its power, filled me with adoration, and he adored being adored, the bigger, older man sheltering the little, feather-light girl. And oh, how many times he had broken me thus, how many times he had poured his dark liquor sweetness inside of me, a drug greater than anything we had ever smoked, swallowed, injected.

But now I was crying out, curling up in pain as he laid me down on the bed, pushed me backwards onto it with the force of his hips, his cock hitting the root of my womb. He fucked me across the bed until my head hit the headboard, but I loved the pain; stars danced in my eyes, danced as his body danced on top of mine, as he freed himself of his clothes. Only when he kicked off his trousers and pulled off my skirt did he leave my pussy; I tensed in horror as he spread my legs and I saw the full length of his cock, so enormous against the smallness of my mound. And yet I wanted this, wanted the discomfort as he entered me, the pain that soon unfolded into pleasure. My nightmare had rendered me into a cold, dead virgin who was now being brought to life, brought to blossom, brought to heat and life by his virility.

He lifted my legs onto his shoulders and laid himself on top of me with his full weight, rolling his hips. I howled onto his lips, whimpered: he was now so deep inside of me he was impacting my internal organs with his blows, our movements pulling at the long scars on my belly. Yet, I clawed at his hair, clawed at his scalp, sobbing "Inside of me, inside of me," wanting to pull him into my body entire, to make my flesh into his throneroom, to have him reign there forever.

And with a groan, he pulled back. His eyes were now a blazing gas-flame blue; drops of sweat were dangling off his hair, beading upon his moustache. "Laura, you're here, you're here, you're here--" he groaned, as if shaking off a dream, tearing through clouds of terrible visions, memories. "You're real and you're mine, mine, _mine,"_ an endearment turned into a possessive snarl, then an ululating howl as his hips lost all rhythm, as his passion lost all sense. 

"And you're mine, Daddy," I snarled back at him, clutched at his back with my legs, throwing my hips up into his thrusts, delirious from the pleasure-pain every time he hit my cervix. I did not know if I was going to pass out from pain or orgasm and I didn't care; I had to have this, had to have it all. "Take me, Daddy, take it, take it, all of it, _kill me._ "

He brought his hand to my throat and squeezed. My eyes flew wide and I jerked, wondering if this was it, if he would really do it, if he would snap my neck, and oh, oh: had he done it now, I would have died happy.

Yet he let go with a kiss, gifting me with life-breath from his own lungs, shuddering himself as I convulsed around him, not just my pussy but my entire body spasming in love-death throes around him. He was murdering Diana, just as he was bringing Laura to life, I knew this; again, he tightened his hand on my throat, beat the root of my pussy, my cunt with his cock so that my vision went white. 

The moment he let go, I left my body. 

The ghost of Diana saw us from above: Torsten's long, lean back and the sweat pooling in the dip of his spine, Laura's soft, fat thighs spread wide around him, her hair a golden halo, her head slack in the grip of his long, thin fingers. A dark beast devouring white and pink flesh, undulating into her listless body; the cry of his orgasm echoing off the ceiling as he poured his sperm into me, his buttocks trembling, the sweat sluicing down the star above his buttocks to kiss its twin, the pulsing pink star of his anus.

And it was in the judders, the shockwaves of orgasm that Laura snapped back into her body, Diana exorcised from her: I dragged in a drowning breath and arched off the bed so violently that he lost his balance, almost falling off me. Keening low in my throat, bellowing, I clutched him with my arms, my feet slipping in the sweat of his hips; my pussy sucking, drinking his sperm with its contractions. Now I was as blissfully, as completely sterile as he was, laughing in delirious delight at the gift we had been given, these acts that had been meant to tame us having turned us into the perfect libertines instead.

More than ever, I now wished to swim in his sperm, drown myself in it. I pulled off him and scooped his come from my pussy, painted my breasts with it. He just laughed and scooped some from my pussy in turn, painting my face with it. He laid himself down and offered his cock to my mouth, and in utter blissful adoration, I sucked out the very last, bittersweet drops of him, welcoming each one, soaking each one into the loving darkness of my flesh.

The desire to speak, to say something rose and then died in me as we lay there, mouthing each other's sexes, drinking from each other. Father feeding upon daughter, daughter feeding upon father, Barring feeding upon Barring, an incestuous ouroboros. We became sated, saturated from each other, yet we were merely feeding upon ourselves, the self we saw reflected in the other person, the one human being, the primordial Torsten-Laura split into two now rejoined. I fell into his darkness, plunged into his abyss as he had plunged into my body, curled up in his arms until there was no more Laura, no more Torsten, only the dark primal sea we had both sprung from.


	3. Chapter 3

We lounged there upon the bed for long moments, not touching each other; it always took a while for one's sweat to dry in this climate. I went and opened the window a little, not bothering to pull a dressing gown on, knowing we were far from finished.

I saw Torsten was watching me, so I let him. Gladly, I posed for him, stretching luxuriously in the moonlight, letting it bathe my body. Tonight was the first time I had started to feel at ease within my body for a long while; tonight I was a Laura repainted, remade. First I had been filled out with the gold of the sun, the gold of his piss; now I was being outlined by white, the white of the moon and the pale, pearlescent streaks of his sperm upon my breasts.

He lit a cigarette and watched me in silence, leaning on his hand and rocking his hips the way a teenage girl would when dreaming of her favourite movie star. And underneath the sheet he had pulled up to his belly, I could tell he was caressing his genitals with his thighs in that way he so loved, slowly stirring himself into fresh arousal. 

Torsten was an extraordinary man in that he was hardly ever sated with just one orgasm; most men were completely spent after they had ejaculated once and would fall asleep immediately, or simply lose interest. This had been the strangest of revelations back when I had been playing with others; I had soon realised this insatiability, this erotic stamina and imagination were characteristics usually found in women. Women, I found, could play all night, maintain curiosity and creativity and playfulness for hours on end; only women were invigorated rather than fatigued by orgasms.

But never so with Torsten. With him, sex was never a mere physical urge, a need to empty his balls, no matter how animalistic and brutal he got. There was always a psychological aspect to his sexuality, a divine afflatus, an unstoppable drive towards creation that ran through all his forms of erotic play. Torsten the composer, the mad scientist, always looking for new scenarios as if he were inventing musical or chemical formulae; Torsten the poet, the painter, coaxing out rhythms from his victims' moans, arranging his subjects into sadistic tableaux to please his eye.

Yet now I shuddered, remembering how this same, frustrated, twisted male urge for wombless creation had driven Doctor Segert. Whereas Torsten's creations gave pleasure to those he played with, involved an interplay of power that satisfied all participants, Segert had viewed people as but raw matter, something to carve in his own image. Torsten, on the other hand, had seen my true nature and had sought to cultivate it, having recognised its darkness, its ruthlessness and its lustfulness for something that should be encouraged rather than suffocated. 

Segert, however, had sought to surgically excise these qualities from me, erase my self from me, to make me into his ideal woman--the perfect little housewife, someone he could present to his colleagues as a work of art, the culmination of the rational male will imposed upon the irrational female. He had made me perform housework in the hospital's kitchen, in his office and had then brought in medical students, other doctors to admire my progress as I had dusted his cabinets, served tea and coffee. The degenerate reformed, you see, just the sort of little mother the world needed right now to uphold society, to get it through these difficult times. His pride and joy, he had called me, had made me parrot phrases about how I wanted to belong, how I wanted a good husband, wanted to adopt children, how I wanted to be just like everyone else.

Last night, I had told Torsten all of this, and he had been so furious he had stabbed his pillow with a pen knife as if it had been Segert himself. "I am going to kill that bastard!" he had shouted, tearing the pillow to shreds, then attacking another one, another until we had run out of pillows. And I knew this for not just a father's protectiveness, not just a lover's jealousy, but the rage of a genius insulted: Laura Erika Barring had been _his_ work of art, his masterpiece, and now this butcher Segert had tried to destroy everything he had worked so hard to build in me. 

Torsten had been my emperor and I his Rome, Segert the barbarian at the gates; Torsten had clung to my shoulders and keened against me, vowing he would never let me be taken, that he would rather burn me like Nero to try and save me from the Christians. This madness of his had aroused me; I had sucked his cock again to calm him down, his rasping breaths and fluttering fingers upon my back mimicking flames, destruction, falling rubble. He had closed his thighs around my throat and squeezed, squeezed until my face had turned purple and I had nearly passed out, and I knew this was how it would end. Yes, I would rather burn with him than go back; I had told him this, had again vowed to die with him rather than submit to the tyranny of fools. I could not imagine living one more day without him; now that I had experienced the horror of it, I knew I would rather kill myself.

This knowledge did not terrify me; it filled me with a serene calm, rather. And it was strange, I thought as I lay there quietly, clutching the quilt around myself, that these two men were not that dissimilar in the end. It had been clear to me from the start that I should have hated Torsten for what he had done, that his perversions should have appalled me--had anyone known of what went on in our private life, they would have seen it as abuse, pure and simple. Even as a child I had known this. 

Yet to me, it had never been abuse, quite the opposite--no, no; what the world saw as _goodness_ would have destroyed me. Had I been brought up by wholesome parents, had I had to suffocate my sex drive, my taste for the lash and the pussy, had I never been allowed to use drugs, wear lingerie, had I been made into someone's housewife, someone's baby machine with no will of my own--oh, I would have ended up committing suicide, I knew it. 

Torsten was the Devil's gift to me, the greatest blessing I had ever known. He was the older, male half of my own self, the most perfect father, brother, friend and lover I could ever have hoped for. It was true that he had brought me up in his own image, but as it was an image that was identical to what had already lain dormant in me, he had been serving but Nature itself, serving my best interests, and I couldn't have been more grateful. 

In his sickness, he had been the healthiest alternative for me; in his perversion, he had protected my inborn deviant nature; in his insanity, he had been the only thing that had kept me sane. 

He noticed I was shivering and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Laura."

Despite the heat of the night, my teeth chattered; I could not stop shaking from the horror, from the waves of panic hormones rushing through me. I had emerged from that hospital as a man emerges from a war, one of the walking dead. I was a soldier who had barely escaped with his life, his bones rattling from shell-shock.

I clutched at my father's pale hand, the hand of beauty, the hand of power, the only hand that could set me free. "Bind me."

He pulled me into his arms and held me tight, deliberately tight so that he was crushing the air out of my lungs, so that I could not weep. "I shall."

***

I lay on the bed in a fetal position, on my right side, my ankles and wrists bound together with silk rope. Torsten stood at the foot of the bed in his dressing gown, smoking, admiring his handiwork in the warm yellow light of the bedside lamp.

"They bound you at the hospital."

I nodded, still shuddering a little. "Yes."

"But not in this position. Only on your back, is that right? So that you couldn't masturbate?"

"Yes."

He ground his cigarette into the ashtray and sat beside me, caressing my hair. "It's going to be all right now, my child. I will only ever bind you for pleasure, and that's what I want you to think of every time you feel this," he said and tugged upon the ropes. "Every time you feel pressure around your wrists and ankles, you will think of me. Now, I am going to help you remember that in a moment, but there's something I need to show you first."

I swallowed and focused, flexed my hands and my feet to feel the pressure of the ropes. The pressure of love, love, love--but again, the horrors rushed back into my chest, no matter how hard I tried. Again, I swallowed and forced my voice into that of the little girl. "Show me, Daddy."

A little sorrow flashed in his eyes; I wondered if he was holding back tears, never having seen me like this. Even after Smythe I had been angry, furious, full of energy from my hatred; now I was struggling to move, the trauma having frozen my limbs. To think that so soon after Torsten's lovemaking I had descended into this state--or perhaps that was exactly because of it, the stimulation of my genitals sending out confusing signals because for so long, I had only been touched against my will, had only felt horror at sexual contact. And even if earlier tonight, I had felt pure pleasure in my body and in my animal mind, on the physical and instinctual level, my rational mind was still struggling to process sex as pleasure, still trying to find the old pathways to joy and happiness, to clear them of this rubble they were buried underneath. 

Torsten reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. "I started writing a letter to you," he said softly. "But I knew they would never let you read it, so I never sent it. I kept waiting for this day, you see," he said, caressing my hair, "kept waiting for the right moment. I want you to read it now, so that you will not forget it."

I choked a little in my throat as he unfolded the letter and supported it against the quilt before my face so that I could read it. I looked up at him, not at the letter, and he paused to kiss me, a little noise escaping his mouth. He smiled wistfully as he pulled back. "Remember what I taught you about pain and pleasure making our memories stronger, imprinting them on our minds through intense sensations? Now, I want you to wait until you feel me giving you pain; then, start reading. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes, Daddy," I said and closed my eyes.

"Then we'll begin."

I heard a snap and opened my eyes. He was grinning at me, holding wooden clothespegs in his hands. "Remember these?"

"Oh, God."

He laughed, a laughter warm, wicked as he stripped and settled behind me. "Now, read while I prepare your pussy. Begin."

I had barely read the first few words--enough to see that it was a love letter--when a sudden pain made my vision flash with white. He had snapped one pair of pegs around my inner labia, pinching them together.

"So I won't fuck your pussy even by accident, you see," he said and kissed my buttock. "I'm going to focus just on your ass for the rest of the night, just like you deserve," he murmured, groaning as he gave the cleft of my ass a hungry lick. "And so Daddy can munch on his _favourite_ candy."

"You're sick," I whimpered, and knew he loved my saying it, as much as I loved feeling it. I stiffened in pain as he applied more pegs all across my folds, closing my pussy entirely with them, yet the pain had the strangest effect: it cleared and sharpened my mind, helped me focus on the words of the letter more acutely than I would have been able to otherwise. His handwriting was crisp, beautiful, precise; the paper fragrant from his lighter floral perfumes of lily and tuberose, a perversely virginal surface for the filth that had been poured upon it.

 _I have missed you so much, my child,_ he spoke. I could feel his eyes upon the letter as he worked on my pussy, him reading the words he had written, psychically echoing them into me with his touches as we read them off the paper.

_I miss the scent of your skin, the softness of your flesh, the sweetness as I bite into it--oh, I am hard as I write this, my little baby girl; that's how much your Daddy misses you. Do you know what I am going to do to you once you're in Daddy's arms once more?_

He slapped my ass and I whimpered.

_I am going to taste you, my child._

Softly, softly, he brought his lips, his tongue to my pussy's lips, to the top of my slit, kissing all that he had not closed with the pegs, scratching my inner thighs with his moustache. With each nudge of his nose, with each huff of his breath against my vulva I trembled, sucked in another word as he sucked in the taste of my pussy through the letter and through his mouth.

_I am going to lick that little slit of yours, suck the salt of piss from your folds, the honey that starts flowing from your entrance as I play there. But don't think I'm going to stop there: I am going to dip my tongue into your ass, too, oh, yes, swirl it deep to see if you have left me a crumb, a streak, a **treat.**_

And at that, I broke into a howl, as he was doing it right now, panting, snorting, fucking my asshole with his tongue; when I twisted away from him at the intensity of the sensation, he but turned the page.

"Read on, my child."

My pussy pulsed with pain and arousal; I thought I was going to pass out, clenching so violently the pegs shook, clattered, bringing me yet more pain. But Torsten kept on tongue-fucking me, rubbing my asshole with his thumb, urging me on.

_Oh, how I love to lick your little girl's ass, even with that juicy pussy right there. Fingering, sucking the taste off my fingers before the glycerine ruins it, and the days when you can take me with just pussy juice and spit--oh, my child, you taste like **heaven.**_

_And then, the shock-sweat, the bitter cold mist of pain upon your skin as I begin to push inside your ass, oh, that I will lap up off your back, from all your hairs standing on end, the feel of your gooseflesh upon my tongue a pleasure licking straight up my balls._

And now, I had finished the bottom of the page--but he took out another leaf!

"Oh, yes, I almost forgot this one," he said casually, chuckling as he placed it before me. "Enjoying it so far?"

"You are a bastard, oh, God--"

He slapped my buttocks, slapped the welts, sending the pegs swaying again; now I was in so much pain I could not even sob, my pussy dripping across my thigh onto the sheets.

"Keep on reading."

_Shall I list all the colours I love on you?_

_Do you know, I think I shall. First, the paleness of your skin, the way the blue of your eyes mirrors mine, the gold of your hair. The way everything about your appearance seems so **nice,** so **sweet,** that of the girl next door. Few would ever expect the **whore** I have known underneath._

Another pin snapped around my folds and now I could no longer moan, panting into the sheets from my agony. I could feel his eyes on my back, forcing me to continue; he ran his hand across the pegs until I spasmed.

"Go on." He smeared his wet hand over my lips. 

_And underneath those clothes, yes, beyond the paleness such a candy store awaits me--the pinkness of your pussy, your little baby pussy, sweet like cotton candy. The way it grows a darker red when I lick it, the way it swells, even more when I play with your ass, fuck your hole a little with my finger. And then there's the delicious, delicious darkness of your ass, the way you mark me as I pull out my cock. The way you marble its length with your anal slime, that mucus I have trained your ass to produce, my little sodomite, my little faggot. And then, if we have rushed, or if it has been one of those days when nothing else will suffice, my greatest delight: the mouth-watering yellow and brown swirling into the slime, gilding my cock, crowning me king. And there, once I am past the second gate behind the curve of your womb, once have penetrated you to the deepest part of your body, my reward: your little pussy spraying my balls with its sugar, just as your ass has left a lovely caramel streak winding around my cock._

_Oh, but Daddy loves your caramel, my child, so sweet, so rich; when will he get to taste it again? When will he get to make his little girl come by smearing it upon her naughty little tongue, her hungry little lips?_

"Please!" I moaned with the last of my strength, but then the letter was finished and he was pushing his cock inside of me, into my ass with just pussy juice and spit and it hurt, hurt, hurt. 

He was hurting himself, too, trying to force himself inside this way; huffing deep from his chest, he relented and brushed a little glycerine across my ass. 

"Fucking virgin tight," he growled, angry at himself, yet I loved this in him: he turned even a complication into something he could derive erotic delight from, this obstacle but enhancing his reconquest of me.

And like a virgin, I screamed, screamed as he forced his way in with deeper and deeper dips, thrusts; he ravaged me just how I needed to be ravaged, hurt, the burn in my ass the most wonderful thing I had ever felt. He hurt me more than Segert's small, pathetic cock ever had, fucked me where I could truly feel it, this the only true way in which I could be _taken._ All other possessions I had ever experienced became unreal when he slid deep inside of me and touched the entrance to my colon; his cock so enormous its stretch blinded me even more than the pain from the pegs had done, this violation burning away all other violations, this the rape I had wanted.

"He never fucked you here, did he?" Torsten snarled, tugging my head back by the hair, rolling his hips. 

"No," I sobbed, "no."

"That's because nobody knows how to fuck my girl like I do," he said, clutching me tight against himself, licking my cold sweat from my shoulder. "Nobody knows how much you like this," he hissed, punctuating his words with hard and sharp thrusts, "Nobody knows how _dirty_ you are, knows how much your little pussy drips when I fuck you in your little _shithole--_ "

"Yes!" I cried, would have clawed him towards myself if I could have, my hands clutching the air as he fucked me so hard the bed creaked, my ass loosening the way it always did just before climax, the anal orgasm always so fast, so sharp, so quick. "Please, Daddy, I'm coming," I sobbed, and now I burst into tears because I was afraid he would stop, that he would want to be cruel, that he would want to wait. "Please, don't stop, I will die if you stop, please let me have it," I howled, wetting his letter with my tears. 

He slipped his hand between my legs and found my pussy; the smallest of touches upon it was agony. I screamed from the bottom of my lungs as he pinched my clitoris with his fingers, the pegs clattering against my thighs.

"Come for Daddy, Laura. Come for me like you come for no one else, no one else," he moaned, rubbing my clitoris violently, each rub an asterism of red-hot pain through my pussy, meeting each white-hot thrust of his cock, my entire womb, my entire pelvis now white, white. "Come for Daddy," I heard as if from far away, the signal of a distant radio station drowned underneath white noise--and there, there. I jerked in his arms, gushing and gushing as the whiteness climbed up my body, slamming through my spine, exploding in my head. First the loosening, then the gush, and then, the final orgasm: I howled, screamed so loudly I hurt my throat, juddering as he kept on thrusting into me, beating my orgasm out of me. The white flashes behind my eyes like the flashes I had felt after shock therapy, only now bringing back memories instead of erasing them--Torsten on the pier--Torsten on the sofa--Torsten, _my father,_ with his big fat cock buried balls-deep inside of me--

And now, my father, undoing the ropes around my wrists and my ankles, snapping the pegs off so quickly I had no time to protest; sending me sobbing, rolling into a ball on the bed with each snap, the red shockwaves of pain forcing another, subtler orgasm out of me. For long, long moments I lay there, convulsing, my ass spasming around the thick, hard stake of his cock impaling me, so enormous I felt he was pushing my guts aside, pushing through my lungs, and in my delirium, I wondered if he would not soon come out of my throat. The red waves upon the white flashes crashing, crashing through me, his body the bedrock against which I was shattering, my body still trembling uncontrollably.

"Father," I croaked, not 'Daddy,' so quiet, so like a child, such a young child, and perhaps I had been like this in my mother's womb, dreaming of this, dreaming of my beloved Uncle Torsten inside of me. Had he pressed his ear to my mother's belly and listened to me? Had he heard me? Had he thought, _Yes, I am going to take this child?_

I was no longer sane, thinking these things, if I ever had been; so I patted at his body, clung to it, tried to turn my head around to see his face.

"I'm here, my child," he said, spooning me against himself.

He rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of himself so that I was lying sprawled over him, facing the ceiling, his cock still inside my ass.

"Hold on," he murmured. "Hold on to the sheets."

And I did, I did; I was a little fatter, softer, now, so my weight held me in place over him; I anchored myself to his cock, clutched at the sheets in my hands. And now I understood why: this mimicked the spreadeagled position I had been tied to upon the hospital bed, deprived of pleasure, the position he would have known from his own asylum stay. 

"I dreamt this," I moaned, my head lolling down beside his; I could no longer hold it up. "That you were underneath me, Daddy," and now my tears were rolling into my sinuses, making me swallow salt and phlegm. "That you would come to take me, that you would help me when I wasn't allowed to come. I felt so awful, so awful and they had taken away my only relief, my only relief--"

"Shh," he said and kissed the tears from my temple, bringing his hands to my pussy, massaging it, spreading my legs so I could better balance upon him. "I know. And I am here now, aren't I? Right here. In my little girl's ass, right where she wanted me. My hands on her little pussy, just like she wanted them," he said and squeezed its lips together with his hands, rubbing my clitoris, "just like my little girl wanted."

"I love you," I murmured, "love you, love you," my whispers dying, sinking like stones into the deep waters, the deep waves of his slow rhythm, his slow calming of me this way, he barely moving inside of me. The weight of his cock felt wonderful, and as he smeared my wetness all over my pussy my tears dried little by little, the increasing heat of my body evaporating all tears, all grief. "I love you," I whispered again, and I did not know if I even said it out loud, or if it was but a psychic whisper, but I knew he heard it, felt it through the beat of my veins around his cock, through the pulsing of my pussy against his hands as he cupped me, held me in his palm.

"And I love you, my child, my sweet, sweet child," he said, his voice soft, thick from emotion. "Lie down, now, my child, lie down, now, on your belly, and I will make you feel so good, I promise, I promise."

I felt weightless, as light as air as I rolled around onto my belly, glad of his weight above me, the way it anchored me to the bed, or else I might have floated, dissolved completely. The dawn had begun to creep through our windows, that early, early light that always felt so unreal to me, this moment suspended between sanity and insanity, flesh and spirit, night and day.

Yet there he was again, once more entering me through my ass, now slicked with more glycerine, penetrating me ever deeper. When he laid his entire, entire, entire weight upon me and laced his fingers with mine, slid the head of his cock past the back of my womb, I died. For a moment, my heartbeat stopped, my breathing stopped and I was outside of my body once more: another soul-skin, another sheath was being sloughed off me, another hurt version of myself calmly floating above us, witnessing the scene from the ceiling, then dying away.

Torsten moved inside of me, and I awoke, awoke to my pussy trickling, spraying, gushing, and perhaps I was pissing, perhaps that was what made him chuckle in my ear so sweetly. My pussy clenched so violently it made him groan, clenched and clenched once more. "Torsten," I moaned, "Daddy," a broken "more" as he stayed still, too still inside of me. 

But oh, that warm chuckle, again, he now awakening, too, becoming warmer as my body found its warmth once more, as my blood started to rush through my veins again, my heart pounding in my ears. 

"Do you like that?" he purred, knowing how much I loved his dirty talk, "Like it when I fuck you like that?" He rolled his hips slowly. "Like that, hmm?"

"Yes!" I howled, tried to spread my legs but he was too heavy on top of me, now thrusting into me so hard he pushed the air out of my lungs. "Fuck me, Daddy, please, please," I cried, and pulled my hands free. I had to come again, was so close again, so soon; I reached underneath myself and ground my pussy against the heels of my hands, fucking myself as he fucked me. "Please."

Again, that slither-chuckle, that rattlesnake-roll of his hips, he a serpentine beast atop me, huffing hot, wet, moist evil in my ear. "It's almost a shame I cleaned you up, my child," he crooned, "but perhaps, if you push hard enough--"

I howled, howled at his intent, pushed back at him with the entire force of my body. Oh, I wanted to soil him, dirty him, make this as filthy as possible to elevate it above normal sex, above the pathetic, mechanical, frigid ruttings of normal people. "Then let me come, Daddy, and maybe, maybe--"

Now, his laughter bubbled out of his throat bittersweet; he licked the sweat from my spine, brushed aside the hair from the nape of my neck, exposing the star he had carved into my flesh. "Then, come," he said, closed his mouth around the tattoo and _bit_ me.

I shrieked as I came, shrieked and gushed, my ass now so loose it was slurping around his cock, making hideous, farting noises, glorious noises, noises that made his mouth smack off my neck, plunging him into his final rut. He shouted into my neck, and past my cheek, I could see blue-black blood dripping from his lips onto the sheets; my eyes rolled back in my head and I jerked with him, taking each of his spasms, errant thrusts inside of me. I was still coming as I felt him lifting his hand, heard him spitting upon it, felt him twisting his hips--oh--he was doing it again, fucking his ass with his fingers to come more intensely, more voluminously.

He had not washed himself, however, had he? 

"Let me taste it," I screamed, trembling at the edge of another tsunami-wave, the ripples in my hips rising, rising. "Please, smear me, please, Daddy, please let me taste your _shit_ \--"

At that, he let out a high keen, the noise of a woman, and I knew he was done: he fell on top of me, pushed his head against mine and shoved his fingers into my mouth, fucking my tongue with them until I gagged. And I did taste him, did taste that herbal sweetness I had not tasted in an age, his shit, his shit. My asshole spasmed with each one of my gags, drew his orgasm out of him, my body greedily drinking it from him as he howled and he howled and he howled. I could feel his come pouring into and out of me, his teeth clashing against mine so violently I saw stars as he sucked his shit off my tongue, shot his sperm inside of me. 

Howling like a savage, still, he pulled back and pumped his cock, fluid still pulsing out of it as he buried his face in my ass. "Give it to me, Laura, please, please, give it, give Daddy the candy, give Daddy the _caramel_ \--"

And I did, I did; I pushed with all my might, farted, sprayed him with his own sperm, laughing deliriously as I showered his come all over his face. Little streaks of brown, of yellow were his prize, his belly dipping and spasming as he shuddered in aftershocks, licking my filth off his moustache, snorting, grunting into my ass. 

"Laura," he groaned, clutching, jiggling my ass against his face, "Laura, Laura, Laura," he whimpered as he rutted against the sheets.

"Daddy, you're silly," I giggled a child insane, turned away from the wet spot and gathered him into my arms.

"Feeling better?" he asked me later as we lay face to face, he brushing my hair from my cheeks, kissing my mouth.

"Much better," I nodded with the eagerness of a four-year-old.

He rested his forehead against mine and tightened his hand in my hair. "And even if you weren't, know that I will never give up on you." He swallowed. "That would be like giving up on myself, Laura. Whatever hurts you hurts me also, deeply, so deeply, and if the worst came to worst--" He closed his eyes, unused to putting such sentiments into words. "Do you understand?" he whispered.

I hugged him tight, so tight I knew I was hurting him. "I do, Daddy. I could not bear it if--" now it was my turn to swallow. "Should anything happen to you." I laced my fingers with his. "Remember what I said when you told me about Birgitte. How if they should ever find us--" I buried my face in his chest, speaking against his heart. "Promise we will go down together, Daddy, promise."

"In flames, my child," he said and hugged me back. "In flames."


	4. Chapter 4

As winter turned towards spring, we became bolder, leaving the house once more, emerging from our monkish seclusion for concerts, for dinners. Yet we still kept a low profile: had we tried to enter the Californian society proper, our ruse would soon have been given away. Alistair kept channeling our money to us, but we knew this could not last; we made plans to leave for Sweden this very summer, war or no war. We'd spend my eighteenth birthday in Forssa, Torsten promised; then, the family fortune would pass entirely into my hands and we would be untouchable.

Yet I felt restless, torn. I wanted to go to nightclubs again, to fuck strangers, to prove to myself that I was still my own woman--Laura the adventuress, not a victim. But finding more robust diversions was difficult, now that Torsten had made enemies in the underworld. Torsten was far more cautious, now, and I had not seen him play with other men since he had been released from prison; he seemed older, more tired and this broke my heart. 

I wanted to change that.

Thus, one night, when Torsten and I were returning home from the theatre in a taxi, warm and bubbly from champagne, I whispered a dare into his ear. "Let's seduce him."

The taxi driver was a handsome young man, Latin, well-built, the type I knew appealed to Torsten. I had seen Torsten looking at him, caressing his broad shoulders with his gaze, his eyes straying to the crotch as usual, always measuring whatever he could see of other men's cocks.

Torsten laughed out a plume of cigarette smoke, leaned back and spread out his arms over the top of the seat, crossing his legs and rocking his foot. "Be my guest," he purred.

I knocked on the driver's window. It was a long way to our house, far away in the countryside as it was, and I explained to him that I needed to answer the call of nature.

A little shocked at a lady being so direct, the driver nevertheless stopped. We were miles from the city, on a dusty road framed by orange trees. It was a moonless, cloudy night; the only light came from the car's glaring headlights. Now, I could have crawled amidst the trees to relieve myself, could've torn my stockings, muddied my shoes, but why should I have? No, no; I squatted right in front of the car, exposing my buttocks to the men--I wore no panties, of course--and began to piss. I delighted in the idea of what the driver must have been thinking right now, the erection that must have risen in his trousers. Laughing, I glanced over my shoulder, still pissing, and saw Torsten was leaning in next to the driver, so close the man must've felt Torsten's breath on his cheek. 

I saw Torsten's lips form the words "Do you want to fuck her?" and the theatrical way he tugged his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, mock-casual, as if this was the sort of thing we did every day.

I shook my ass, wiped myself off with a tissue, making sure they saw my pussy was shaven, saw me part its lips, saw me give myself a little rub. I tugged my skirt down, walked back towards the car and made sure to jiggle my hips, my breasts; I was now so aroused I ached between my legs.

I leaned through the window like a prostitute, smiling widely at the driver. "What's your name?"

He adjusted his cap, looked from me to Torsten, then back at me, swallowing thickly. Oh, but what a strong neck he had, firm and golden. "Antonio. But--but my friends call me Tony."

"Tony," I grinned, slinking my weight from one foot to another the way Torsten always did. "Has my old man been giving you trouble?"

Flustered, Tony lifted his hands from the steering wheel, then grabbed it again. "No. Absolutely not."

Torsten grinned like the Devil and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I merely noticed he was looking at you. Did you like looking at my daughter, Tony?"

"Well, I--"

I unzipped my dress and let it fall off my shoulders. When Tony saw my breasts, his eyes flew wide and threatened to pop out of his head; stunned, wordless, he watched as I walked around the car in but my stockings and my heels, my dress slung over my shoulder, strutting over to the passenger seat. I opened the door and sat in next to Tony, resting my hand on his thigh.

"How about now?"

Tony looked to Torsten. "What are you playing at? Is this some trick? You from the FBI? I swear I know nothing--"

"Nuh-uh," Torsten tutted and shook his head, pulling Tony back against the seat. "I think my daughter likes you, that's all."

I did indeed. I unzipped Tony's trousers and Torsten's admiring gaze had been right: Tony's cock was full, beautiful, filling out to a good seven or eight inches as I stroked it with my hand. And how thick it was! Rarely had I seen a cock this fat. I could hear Torsten's breathing growing faster; he was practically drooling.

"That's a beautiful cock you've got there," Torsten murmured, and Tony stiffened in terror; the poor man attempted to say something, but I silenced him with my mouth on his cock. I could only fit the head of it into my mouth, that's how big he was; I adored this, adored the way he choked me, filled me with just one mouthful. His balls were big and heavy, too; I cupped them in my palm and already they were so firm I feared he would come if I continued a moment longer. 

I lifted my head and tossed my hair from my face. "I think you'd better join us in the back seat, Tony," I said, wiped my mouth and retreated. 

I felt as if we were initiating a virgin into an ancient mystery rite; I doubt Tony was a virgin, but he felt like one as we accepted him into the sensual darkness of the Barring embrace. Torsten remained clothed all throughout, content to watch as I sucked Tony's cock, sat on it with my pussy--now that I didn't have to fear pregnancy, now that I had more bad memories to erase, I had decided to let other men take my pussy and not just my ass. Torsten had no problem with this, as long as he could watch: he peered between my buttocks and adored the sight of my pussy lips spreading around Tony's cock. And all the while, Tony was trembling in terror, jumping each time Torsten touched his knees, each time Torsten smacked my ass, each time Torsten leaned close to steal a kiss from me.

Yet at each jump, I felt Tony's cock was leaping, too; he pretended to pant into my shoulder but I saw him stealing glances at Torsten, the beauty of Torsten sprawled out in his tuxedo, his hand caressing the bulge of his cock. I rubbed my pussy and rode Tony furiously, milking his cock with my muscles; I turned around so I could ride him in the reverse position, preferring as I did to be penetrated from behind. His cock had been too big to hit the right spots immediately, but now I could glide down on him with ease; just after a few bounces I was coming, shrieking against the driver's window, trembling on top of him, my knees quaking.

I collapsed into Torsten's lap; Tony had not come yet, his cock bobbing, gleaming in the warm night air.

Torsten stumped his cigarette. "Ever had a man suck your cock, Tony?" he asked, casually.

"No, I--"

Tony made to tuck himself back into his trousers, but Torsten was quicker; and oh, the noise he made as Torsten swallowed him into his mouth! He had enjoyed my pussy, had been rock-hard when I had been riding him, but now he truly was lost, crying out in shock, not knowing where to put his hands as Torsten sucked him noisily, wetly, slurping my pussy juice off his cock. He patted at the seats, patted at Torsten's back but soon moved his hands to the seats again as if he had been burnt, as if he could somehow make this less homosexual if he wasn't the one doing the touching. 

Little did Torsten care: I adored him as he finally sated this part of himself and sucked cock like the old faggot he was, worshipping Tony's length and girth with his mouth, humming in utter contentment. He lifted Tony's balls in his hand and sucked them, too, Tony's cock drawing a gleaming stripe across his cheek; the poor boy whimpered as Torsten looked up at him.

"How do you like that, then?" Torsten asked him, sucking the skin at the root of his cock, his eyes glimmering in the darkness with wicked delight. 

"I--oh, I--you two are insane, insane."

"Correct," I said and kissed him, laughing into his mouth. "Would you like to come in my Daddy's mouth?" I asked, angelically.

"If you insist," he laughed and even in the dark, I could tell he was blushing even further, aroused even more as I kissed him. Torsten began to suck him again and I guided Tony's hands to my breasts, sucked his moans out of his mouth as I sucked his tongue; soon, I heard Torsten choking, groaning in delight as Tony filled his mouth with sperm. On and on, Torsten kept sucking, lapping, slurping each and every drop into his mouth with the thirst of a man who had been lost in the desert. I was even happier for Torsten than I was for myself, that I could give him this: a happy, pleasant homosexual experience after all he had been through. As he had been healing me with his debaucheries, now I was healing him, too--and what a delightful way to go about it!

Tony provided plenty of fun for us for the rest of the night. He was still hard after Torsten pulled back, clearly up for another round, but feeling capricious, I forced him back into his suit and told him to drive us home. We asked him to stay for the night, but he had to go back, he said; therefore, we pounced him at the door and fucked him on the patio. He had never fucked a girl in the ass before, and when I offered him mine, he went absolutely wild, wild; so wild he did not even mind Torsten offering his own cock to his mouth. I did not even have time to come before Tony had shot his seed into my ass, so unused he was to the tightness, so shocked from the taste of a man's cock in his mouth.

We took pity on him, bundled him into his car and sent him off with an astronomical tip. As he drove off, I laid in Torsten's arms on the patio, half-dressed, wrapped only in a thick woollen shawl; we cackled like crows, kissing and kissing.

"You didn't let him finish you off, I see," I murmured against his cheek, stroking his cock.

"I have been a little tired," he said apologetically.

I turned around and sat on him, guiding his cock into my pussy, wrapping the shawl around us, moving him so that he could rest comfortably against the wall. He was only just hard enough to stay inside of me, but I did not mind; I don't even remember if either of us came. All I remember is that we sat there for long moments, I riding him, he undulating into me, kissing and kissing until the stars came out, until the moon came out. I had not felt such peace in what felt like aeons; I knew he felt the same. 

"Did you have a good time tonight?" I asked, like a husband asks his wife.

"The most perfect of nights, my love," he answered, like the wife, the moonlight glimmering through his eyes, upon his lips. "Thank you."

I hugged him tight, tight; so full of love and contentment I could have died happy, then, died there with him inside of me, crowned by the moon and the stars.


	5. Chapter 5

Whenever my mood was unstable, Torsten offered me the gift of servitude; whenever he veered towards too much introversion, I would lure him out with a slap so that he would pounce me once more. It invigorated him, too; in my submission, I returned to him the power that had been taken from him, the only power he had ever wielded: that of sexuality. With great enthusiasm, he studied new ways of tying me up, ordered new toys from private artisans, trained me into the sexual champion I had been before they had taken me away. Indeed, had sex been an Olympic sport, we would have been multiple gold medalists; with ingenious straps, devices and potions we sustained marathon orgies that sometimes lasted for days. 

Entire days, I spent in sexual hazes, dreaming with him: he took cream in his morning coffee from my ass and ended the day by drinking his sperm from it. I woke up to his cock in my pussy, fell asleep with it still nestled inside of me. And just as he trained my ass to take his entire hand once more, I trained his waist with my corsets until it regained its true, feminine shape. 

Yet there was still something in him that was cold, stiff; some part of him that his old fire had not warmed yet. He was sinuous once more, but not yet _fluid_ when it came to his expression of sensuality; there was a part of him that was frozen still. I knew exactly what that part was: it was the most deeply homosexual part of him, the most deeply feminine part of him that had been so yielding before, so receptive before, so fiery in its passion. That part had been hurt the way women are hurt by male violence; thus, no living male could ever begin to undo that damage. He still didn't trust men, the way an abused woman cannot even be touched by a man. Yet deep within, there was a hunger inside of him, a hollow place within him that could never be satisfied by his claiming of me, by his taking of me, by his pushing into my body when what he most needed was to be filled himself.

Therefore, I set out to do what no man could. 

I rang the leatherworker Torsten ordered his toys from and had something very special made for myself: a harness like Helena's, fitted especially for me. It was a brilliant piece of engineering, with rings and buckles at the front that allowed me to attach a variety of rubber penises to it.

"Developed by the boot-girls of Berlin," the weasel-like shopkeeper told me when I visited his back room, beaming with pride as he demonstrated the dildos. "The smallest one is for inexperienced folks, or for light play; that eight-incher's for a proper, nice fuck, and this one, well." He leered at me. "Not everyone can take this feller," he said as he lifted out a grotesquely oversized dildo, heavy, made of black rubber, as thick as a man's arm. 

"I'll take it," I said, beaming. "Can you make one in white?"

He had probably thought I was a lesbian and that I would damage a woman with such a monstrous thing. True, I would not want to take this thing inside of me, I thought as I unwrapped the final product and held it in my hands, and most definitely not in my vagina. But Torsten... well. I had seen him take my hand, and I wanted to give him something more this time, something he would not forget. This was exactly the sort of thing that he would approach as a challenge, as a matter of whorish pride and I knew it. 

Yet I had to do this right, to give it the ritualism he needed, the drama, the psychological play that was essential to our sexual satisfaction. Just as I had done with Birgitte, I now needed to become like Torsten himself, become the man, the seductor, the one dominant; yet now that it was Torsten himself I was after, I had to become even stronger than him. Essentially, I had to become _more Torsten than Torsten._

I felt a strange satisfaction at this, as it allowed me to step away from my female body, my female soul, the part of me that had been so deeply scarred. In a sense, I felt that I had healed more rapidly than Torsten had, and this change I now underwent only underlined the fact. For does not any painter need to step back for a moment to see the whole picture, in order to make the details blend together seamlessly? Does not any true mystic need to embrace a total androgyny, to truly live as both the male and the female in order to attain the full human experience? It was Torsten himself who had given me my first experience of true sexual fluidity; it was _his_ transvestism I had mimicked on my path to freedom, and it was time I let him feast upon the fruits of that gift, used them to bring his soul back to its true, undivided, hermaphroditic state.

That morning, Torsten was away on business--well, he said it was business, but I suspected he had travelled to town to replenish our drug supply. I only hoped he wouldn't return drunk; I had told him I had a surprise waiting for him when he got home, hinting that it was of the sexual sort. God knows that if we hadn't had our sexual play, both of us could have become complete drunks, complete dope fiends; at times, we had fought off the cold sweat of withdrawal by sheer, animal fucking. Sex had always been our greatest drug, and I wanted it to remain that way.

Thankfully, my tuxedo still fit me; I had lost a little of the weight I had gained at the hospital. The hardest part was trying to tuck in the dildo I had attached to the harness--only the medium-sized one for now, the toy that was more or less the same size as Torsten's own, if formidable cock. It wouldn't have to remain inside the trousers for very long, which was a relief; I didn't want to crease them up, so I just let the cock stick out of the fly for now, laughing a little as I walked about the house with my newfound erection. Thank goodness I had let the maid off early today, I thought to myself, mad from glee: if she came back for a lost bag or if anyone else came to visit, they would faint from sheer shock.

This felt _wonderful._ I always felt a little more virile whenever I neared menstruation, but never more so than now; the blood that weighed down my hips and made me so restless this time of the month now seemed channeled into the dildo as I stroked it a little, warmed it in my hand. My cock was wonderfully heavy, elastic, the rubber still so new it shone. I even carried a set of realistic balls, now, and cupped them, stroked myself the way I had seen Torsten stroke himself, sprawling back on the sofa as I awaited his return.

It was a shame the dildo wasn't flesh-coloured, but I wanted to hit Torsten's perversion at the core, to show him exactly where he had been fucked, to allow him his ultimate, dark, fragrant fetish. Since our reunion, we had not indulged in dirty ass-tasting play all that much, having realised how often it resulted in stomach upsets, but I knew he still yearned for it, especially when he needed the most intense of fucks, the sort that would turn his mind inside out. 

And soon, I would give him that, soon, soon; I recalled the way he had sucked the filth off the white mouth gag dildo and I shuddered in delight. Torsten, Torsten the cocksucker, the faggot, lapping up his _caramel;_ soon he would be lapping it off _my cock._ I had to spread my legs; my pussy was so swollen and so wet I was ruining my trousers, ruining the leather but I didn't care. I moaned, leaned back on the sofa and moved my hand rhythmically on the cock's shaft so that its contoured root rubbed my clitoris just right, so that my swelling seemed extended into the cock, so that even a soft roll of my hand at the tip sent a glorious tremor through my hips.

Oh, yes, I was ready.

It was then that the telephone rang, right next to the sofa; I almost had a heart attack. 

It was Torsten. "I'm stuck with the Rothschilds," he sighed. "I'm afraid I've got to play the millionaire for a while yet, my dear."

"You _are_ a millionaire," I laughed. "When are you coming home?"

"God knows," he moaned. "We just had a break for lunch, and even that, they insisted on buying me; I'm still at the restaurant. But I can't let this opportunity slip--you know how well-connected they are."

"I know." Damn and blast; he might not be back until evening, or even late at night--we didn't brown-tongue anyone but the select few, and the Rothschilds were among those select few. And the political situation being what it was, we were at a huge advantage here. Sweden had been one of the few countries that had remained neutral, and as wily as the old Jews were, they were more likely to trust us more than they would trust many other European families right now. Yet if Torsten couldn't give our real name away, forging said trust might be difficult. And what if he _had_ told them who he was, desperate for recognition? Oh, now my mood was plunging into darkness and worry. I had to do something about this, had to.

"What are you wearing?" I asked.

"Pardon?" he laughed, knowing exactly what I meant, and in his voice, I detected his utter delight at my outrageousness. I could see him, now: looking around himself in a telephone booth, a little flustered, trying to mask his arousal. Step one in the playing-Uncle-Torsten game, then; I had acted exactly as he would have in a situation like this.

I grinned and gave my cock a little stroke. "You heard me perfectly well. What are you wearing, my dear?" I asked, my voice a perfect imitation of his own cadence, his purr, his twin now making love to him through the telephone line.

He groaned, a noise I had learned to associate with a twitch in his cock. "It's funny you should ask that. Did you check to see whether there was anything missing in the laundry today?"

"You didn't!" And to think I had scolded Juanita for mislaying my best black lace panties, the ones I had bought in Paris!

"They still smell of you," he sighed with wicked delight. "Still had a pretty little stain on, right down the middle, from when I pulled them off you."

I burst into laughter. To think of it, that he had chosen this day, the day I had thought to take him as a woman to feminise himself--oh, our telepathy never ceased to amaze me. I was sure he didn't know of the harness and the dildos, however; they had only arrived today.

I squeezed my cock and ground its root down over my clitoris, purring into the receiver. "How do you feel wearing them?"

"Sensual, quite sensual," he said breezily, the perfect coquette. "These are the only ones that can hold me, for a start. All nice and _snug._ "

God. I hissed through my teeth. He must have been half-hard all day, I knew it. "Have you been touching yourself?"

"Mmm. Perhaps." He could barely hold back his laughter--I could hear he was grinning like a maniac.

"You haven't forgotten about that surprise I promised you, have you?"

"Oh, no," he said.

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back. "Touch yourself. Now."

He laughed. "I'm in a public phone booth!"

"I don't mean the front," I leered. "Turn around, slip your hand behind your back and touch your ass. Do it."

There was silence at the other end of the line. Finally, I heard him draw in a shuddering breath, heard a smacking sound as he swallowed, opened his lips. "And now?"

"Rub your pussy," I said, a sharp snap, a command, in a voice that would not take 'no' for an answer. Just like him, just like him.

"God--" his voice trembled. 

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes," he hissed, a little irritated from embarrassment, but his heart must have been pounding; I could practically see the veins on his temples bulging from excitement. 

"Good girl," I crooned. 

He drew in a sharp breath of surprise; I could hear his moustache scratching the receiver. "What's gone into you?" he drawled, mock-scolding. I had rarely assumed control in sex when it was just us two; never had I truly _dominated_ him. And now that I was doing it, he was boiling over with desire.

"I should have thought that was perfectly clear," I said in my best fatherly voice. " _You_ have gone into me. You've been such a good Daddy; I thought it was about time I returned the favour. Are you complaining?"

"Not at all," he purred, then let out a frustrated sigh. "But I must go. I will try to get home as soon as possible. I'll feign an illness or something."

"You'd better," I said, stroking my cock. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you when you come back?"

"Laura..." he groaned, and I was sure he was looking around himself, squirming--oh, to have been there! Yet, he loved it. "Tell me."

"I'm going to lick your pussy. Lick that little pink slit of yours, open you up. And do you know what I'm going to do, then?"

He moaned, now, his voice wet from want. "Tell me." 

"I'm going to spread you out on my bed and _fuck you._ "

His only answer was a suffocated cry.

"But only if you play nice. Are you going to be a nice little girl for me? Hmm?"

"Yes!" he cried, far too loudly.

"See you soon, then," I said brightly. "Bye-bye!"

I hung up, barely able to replace the receiver from my laughter. Oh, this was magnificent, beautiful, glorious. And damn the tuxedo! I kicked my trousers off, unbuckled the harness and took out the cock; I had to fuck myself now or die. I had to relieve this tension in order to be cool and calm for Torsten when he returned; I couldn't let frustrated arousal get in the way of my masterplan. I was so wet, so hot I could slide the cock inside of my pussy with just two thrusts; rubbing my clitoris furiously, I rode the dildo right there on the sofa and came within seconds. My clitoris was massively swollen, distended like those of some lesbians I had seen, a miniature cock in and of itself; I squeezed it between two fingers and groaned at the sight. 

I could not stop riding the dildo, thinking I was now baptising it, truly charging it with the power of my orgasms, my pussy irradiating it with the force of my desire. This, I would take him with, this, I would push into his little pussy, this I would hold up to his mouth as reward--oh, God. Again and again, I made myself come until I was so sore, so wrung out my legs no longer supported me and I collapsed onto the sofa a shuddering ball.

I was going to give him the night of his _life._

***

It only took an hour or so until I heard his car approaching the house. Perfect. I had just been putting the finishing touches on the bedroom and on myself, tying my hair into a ponytail, even drawing a little moustache on my upper lip in homage to his.

I poured out two glasses of liqueur, lit a cigarette and sprawled on the living room sofa, waiting.

"Well," Torsten laughed as he took in the sight. Yet I could tell his hand was shaking a little as he set the keys on the dresser.

I ran my hand across the bulge in my trousers. "You're late," I scolded him playfully.

"I am _so_ sorry," he crooned with his hands in his pockets, slinking his hips. "But I believe we have a new business partner in the Rothschilds." He nodded towards the drinks. "I see you were expecting a triumph."

"I _am_ quite impressed, I must admit," I said, again stroking my cock, and now he definitely noticed it. "But enough of business. Come give Daddy a kiss."

"Daddy?" he laughed incredulously. Yet his eyes widened into that stare he often had when a male had taken his fancy; a wide-eyed excitement at the idea of having found someone who could give him a good manhandling.

I crooked my finger in a come-hither gesture. "Yes; Daddy." I spread out my legs. "Come give me a kiss, right here."

He hesitated for a moment, but oh, the flash of arousal in his eyes; the way his throat bobbed! He loosened his tie and strutted over to me, his hips swaying like those of a prostitute. The girl in him had awakened; I had not seen her in months and this filled my heart with a sudden tenderness. As he knelt between my legs and clasped my knees, I trembled; yet I forced myself to remain calm and stroked his head.

"That's more like it."

He kissed my palm. "Show me."

"Maybe. It depends. Have you been a good little girl?"

He laughed again, shaking his head. "I can't believe you're doing this."

"And you love it," I said, clasping his jaw, caressing his mouth with my thumb. At that very gesture, I could see his cock jerking in his trousers; I tugged on his lower lip. "Open up."

Still laughing, he opened his mouth and sucked my thumb. Oh, _God._ His teeth sent an electric jolt through my pussy, through my nipples; the way he closed his eyes and sucked in delight made me shudder in arousal. He fellated my thumb lazily, swirling his tongue around it, daring me. 

And I did dare. I unbuttoned my fly and lifted out my cock.

He spat out my thumb and reared back. "My, my," he laughed a little nervously as he saw the size of my cock--I grinned to myself as he had no idea of the bigger one I had stashed away in the bedroom.

"Go on," I said, clasping my cock, stroking it, holding it out to his mouth. "I've been keeping it warm for you all day," I murmured tenderly, "all nice and sweet for my little girl."

He keened through his teeth and squeezed his cock through his trousers. "You are an evil little _bitch._ "

I raised my eyebrow. "I learned from the best. Now, give Daddy's cock a kiss."

But he kissed my mouth instead: he pinned me to the sofa, devouring my mouth, sucking my tongue, rutting against my cock. Oh, it felt wonderful, yet I knew this was a challenge, him testing whether I could truly assume power, truly remain in control. 

I shoved him back so violently he landed on his ass. "Down."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fury flashing in his eyes. "Well! What brought this on?"

"You did," I said, more serious, now. "Because you need this."

He remained quiet, but resumed his position between my knees. There was a softness in his eyes, now, but he couldn't bring himself to admit I was right. Yet he listened, acquiescing with his silence, it seemed.

"I want to see you take this," I murmured, stroking my cock, offering it to him once more. "I want to see you enjoy yourself," I said, now choking a little in my throat. I felt like an idiot, a little girl trying to discipline a grown man, even if I knew this was what needed to happen. No, no, Laura Erika, you must stay calm, you must. Thus, I steeled myself and continued. "Because you're the most beautiful girl I know, and I can't bear to see you miserable."

His mouth trembled a little; he glanced down at the cock, laughed a little wetly and looked back up at me. This was an offering, more than just a little game; I had become what he needed out of my love for him, to mend him as he had mended me, and I wished with all my heart that he understood it. But if he didn't--

I was consumed with a sudden anger. "Don't you dare ruin this."

"I won't," he said, "I won't." He slid down, down, nuzzled my cock; I fancied I could see his eyes were a little wetter than before. He changed his voice from playful to serious, clasping my cock against his cheek. "Thank you."

And as he closed his eyes and swallowed me into his mouth, I knew he had understood. The gratitude in his eyes, the playfulness in them, the way he rocked his hips in lascivious display; I had lit a new fire in him, opened a door into a chamber that had been frozen, and he slithered into action. A danseuse hearing the first beats of her opening number, twirling, swirling out onto the stage, he captivated me with his skill, his grace, his charm. I was but the orchestra, the stage upon which he--she--could now unfold, spread the myriad-coloured skirts of her beauty open wide; with my dominance, my prick his pivot. As he pressed down, down, so far down he gagged and pleasured my pussy with the pressure, I choked on a sob, ecstatic from my triumph. I had to clasp his head, had to claw at his hair, caress it, overcome by emotion. 

"Suck it," I hissed wetly, swallowing back tears. "Suck it like the little slut you are," I laughed, my voice cracking with a delirious joy.

"I will," he chuckled, and I laughed with him, sparkled with the sparkle in his eyes, moaned as he swallowed me once more. 

And he made it beautiful, more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. He restrained himself for me, submitted himself to me as if he would to a powerful man: almost demure, he never took his cock out of his trousers, delaying his own pleasure, only gifting himself with a few strokes now and then. I had only ever fucked him with toys held in my hand, had only had my pussy licked and sucked by him, but now I could finally experience what his men did, and it took my breath away.

He looked up at me, knowing exactly how beautiful he was with his mouth so filled, how beautiful his eyes were when he held them open wide and looked into mine; knew how beautiful his hands were as they stroked my shaft. And all the while, perhaps from his experience with Helena or from instinct, he knew how to press on the balls, the root of the toy to rub my pussy. It was contoured to cup me just right, with dips and ridges in just the right places, so that now it truly became an extension of my clitoris--and the work of art he made of this blowjob was what aroused me to a frenzy. I was so swollen, so wet I had dripped to my asshole; I undulated my hips, thrusting into his mouth, the beautiful, glossy red mouth of my little girl. I could never have believed it would feel this good, that I would get such satisfaction out of this, but by the time my cock was gleaming from him, I had reached the brink of orgasm.

It was time for me to give him his true surprise, something he would not have expected, not in a million years. All my hair stood on end; my pussy pulsed, and I even felt a little swirl of disgust in my belly at the ruthless act I was about to perform. Yet the thrill of it was greater, far greater; the exact sadistic delight he himself would have felt at a moment like this.

"Daddy's going to come in your mouth," I whispered, looking into his eyes, rolling my hips, rolling them, watching my cock slide in and out past his lips. 

"Mm-hmm?" he purred with a lazy, languid-eyed curiosity, stroking the root of my cock, never ceasing in his sucking of the head. 

"There, there, hold it, hold it," I murmured, just as he did when he was about to fill my mouth with come. And little did he know what I had planned for him, little did he know of the hollow tube running through the cock, of what could be done with this toy if I held the cupped root across my pussy just right. I pressed down on the balls, focused, focused--I had to get this right--

And oh, the scream he made as the first splash of my piss hit his mouth! In shock, he coughed a little, but kept sucking, his eyes wide, and now he was _screaming_ around my cock, a gurgling scream, drops of my piss dribbling down his lip onto the carpet. He sobbed, swallowed, sobbed again and from the way he juddered, from the way his hips now bucked, I was sure he had come in his trousers. Here, the very same fetish he had initiated me with, his favourite way of subjugating me, offered to himself as reward. The significance of this did not escape him; worshipful, he looked into my eyes and moaned, sucking out every drop, even as I stood up so I could empty whatever had caught inside the toy into his mouth.

And now, I could not stop thrusting; I could smell his sperm--yes, yes! I laid back on the sofa and cupped his head, fucked his mouth, ground myself against him. "Take it, take it, take it," I howled, throwing my head back, now groaning at the ceiling in my own orgasm, groaning as low and as deep as a man each time the head of my cock hit his throat and sent a wave of pleasure radiating through my pelvis. And the tears that now ran down his cheeks, the spit, the piss; I shuddered in joy as I took his mouth and fucked it, fucked it, fucked it.

With a ragged gasp, he pulled back, no longer able to bear it, even his breathing hoarse. I gathered his head into my lap and stroked it as he panted against my thigh.

"You're unbelievable," he groaned. 

I tucked a wisp of loose hair behind his ear. "Did you come?"

"I think I did," he muttered into my thigh, like an embarrassed teenager.

"Shame," I said breezily. "I was going to fuck you in the ass."

He bolted up at that. "That's no excuse!"

I picked up one of the glasses from the table and leaned back. "Take your clothes off, then."

"All right," he grumbled. 

I smirked into my liqueur as I watched him huffing and puffing. "Slowly."

Yet he was well aware of his beauty; he was the vainest man I had ever known, and now sought to avenge himself on me by teasing me with that beauty. He turned even this into something of a strip-tease, and I fancied that with every masculine garment he removed, more and more of the female Torsten came to the fore. He was stripping away the protective shell of the well-cut suit, that armour of male power and pride, something he had wrapped about himself to hide the hurt faggot, the one who had been punished for his love of penetration, for his femininity. 

And he came to love this, was aware of the multiple layers, the emotional meanings of every gesture the way women are. Happily, he cast aside jacket, tie, shirt, vest; the arcs of his hands becoming softer, his movements gentle. Like a pin-up girl, he sat on the coffee table and lifted his feet into the air to remove his trousers; luxuriously, he slid them off his long legs, an act that made both of us laugh, laugh like sisters at a shared game. In this moment, I was party to that part in him that was almost innocent in its softness, its purity, an essential sweetness inside of him; I was reminded of the times Birgitte and I had played together, doing the things teenaged girls did together. 

"You're beautiful," I murmured. "The most beautiful girl in the world." And I meant it. There was nothing more beautiful to me in that moment, him revealing his entire, undivided self to me like this, trusting me like this.

He flushed at that; he clasped the edge of the coffee table, sitting there with his legs closed like a woman, still wearing my lace panties. 

"And now?" he said, rocking a little, the very picture of the impatient schoolgirl.

"Turn around. Show me your pussy."

And oh, the jolt of heat that went through me as I said that; the way he shivered visibly! The strangest of expressions flickered upon his face, an admixture of incredulousness, laughter and tears.

Yet, he obeyed. Slowly, turning even this into a dance, he bent over the coffee table and began to lower the panties. Sensuous, sinuous he rolled his back, a serpentine dance where he tugged the panties a little higher at times, then lower, lower. When I hissed in irritation at another one of his teases, I had to start stroking my cock once more, feeling every inch the man: I wanted to pounce him, savage him, surge into him, claim him, spend myself inside of him until I had taught this little minx a lesson.

"You little _slut,_ " I hissed, and at that very word, his buttocks clenched, his hands slipped a little on the panties. "Do you enjoy teasing men like that?" I said, pressing my cock down the way I had seen him do when masturbating. "Like making us all hard, all hot and bothered, so we'll fuck you real good?" I drawled.

He tossed back his head--the vamp!--and let out a bubbling, crooning laugh. "Perhaps." He let the panties fall, kicked them off with a dainty foot and bent over the table, offering his ass. "Do you like what you see?"

"Perhaps," I countered. "Keep doing that."

"This?" he said, arching his back, pushing his ass out so that I could see the pink slit of it, the pink pussy-seam of his perineum, the pink bud of his anus. He must have shaved himself last night or this morning to be so smooth; to better feel the lace of the panties against exposed, sensitive skin. 

"It is a _very_ pretty little pussy," I said, and now I had to join him, still fully clothed myself, making sure I strutted with the swagger of a young man, my cock swaying as I moved to kneel behind him. Two could play at this teasing game: I cupped his buttocks with my hands, stroked them, massaged them, spread them; I adored his asshole as it pulsed and pursed with my strokes, the way his cock moved at my touch, never having completely softened. "You little tart."

"Guilty as charged," he crooned, but his voice was creaking a little with frustration. 

I spread his ass once more and again it pulsed between my thumbs; I adored this, the way it reminded me of my own arousal. "It clenches like a little pussy, too," I murmured, stroking his cleft with my thumbs, never touching his anus. "Just like a little pussy that needs to be _filled up,_ " I said, letting the words pop wet out of my mouth. 

He jerked violently at that, groaning, rubbing his face against the table. "Please do," he moaned, taking his hand to his cock.

I slapped his hands off. "Ask nicely."

"Please."

"Please, what?"

For a while, he hesitated, stiffening, then relaxing a little; he was about to take the final plunge.

"Please fuck me," he groaned, and something was loosened in him as he said that, a great need undammed; he sounded as if he was in true physical pain as he repeated it, rocking his hips, whispering "Fuck me, fuck me," saying it with his whole body, trying to suck me into himself, into his very soul with his movements. 

I had thought to tease him more, but I took pity on him: I took his ass with my mouth.

And the groan he made, echoing off the wood and the glass and the metal of the table--he shuddered as I lapped at his ass with my tongue. Now it was no mere act of him humiliating me, no, no; I was acting out of my own greed, my own need to taste each and every fold of this beautiful, pink pussy, for the woman to claim her kind. I wanted to lick and suck and kiss this ass until it became a vulva, became red and wet, as open and as vulnerable as I was at moments like these, a red flower unfurled so that I might better feast upon its nectar. And he pushed back into me, wanting this, needing this, and there, there: that amazing pulse of the ass opening, stretching wide in extreme arousal, exposing more of its insides to my tongue. The salty, bloody, metallic taste that greeted me made my head spin, more intoxicating than any liquor; my pussy ached at what I was now tasting.

"I'm going to take you dirty," I hissed, panting against his ass, my tongue hurting. He howled at that, but I continued. "I'm going to fuck this ass, shove my cock so deep inside of you you won't be able to escape it, will know where it's been when I lift it to your lips; you'll feel it, taste it--"

At that, he let out such a pitiful cry I knew I had no time to waste. I reached into my pocket and took out a tin of vaseline--the sort that was thick, yet tasted completely neutral--and smeared a generous amount on my cock and a daub between his buttocks, perfect for a good slide. I didn't ask him if he was ready; I knew it, and the moment I touched his ass with my cock he lifted his hands to spread his buttocks, inviting me inside. 

"That's it; good girl," I crooned, loving the way he reacted, sighed against the table as I began to push in. Having normally only taken him with dildos held in my hands, it was a strange new experience for me to now have the weight of my hips instead of my arms behind me as I fucked him; I realised I still needed my hands to hold the cock in place. I had to hold it just underneath the glans to help dip it inside of him, and it was with little dips that I began to stretch those stubborn muscles, just as I had learned to do with myself. In and out, in and always out whenever the resistance seemed the strongest; then a new attack, a push harder, slowly seducing the ring of muscle to slacken, to yield to pleasure instead of this brief delusion of pain. 

Torsten breathed deeper, pushed his ass back onto my cock, forcing himself to relax even if he was in a little pain, I could tell. He hadn't been taken in such a long time, and I knew how much harder a rubber cock was in comparison to one of flesh and blood; yet I kept on dipping, kept on pushing until the head finally slid in.

And there, he stiffened, jerked; reflexively, he pulled away from me at the overwhelming sensation of penetration. Yet I followed him, using my weight to remain inside of him. A little sob cracked against his teeth; I stroked his sides, the way he so often did to me at this stage, crooning softly in his ear. "Good girl, good girl, good girl."

"Fuck me," he said, rubbing his face against the table, furious. He must have been angry at himself, at whatever emotions now ran through his mind, whatever fears now rose to the surface.

And I did as he asked. I pulled back and began a steady rocking of my hips, again dipping in and out of him, yet now deeper, deeper, each slide forcing his muscles into opening fully, accepting my weight and length within his body. I felt a stab of pain in my heart at his stiffness, at the way he jerked a little from pain, still; yet I knew that if I stopped now, he would never forgive me. Just as I had needed him to take me harder than any of my abusers had done, he now needed me, needed this unnatural, too-hard penetration of the artificial penis to triumph over the memory of his own violations. 

Yet this did not feel right; he was still too stiff, far stiffer than he usually was at this stage. By now, the pain should have turned into pleasure; yet it was obvious this was not the case with him. He was simply too quiet, too passive. Therefore, I stopped moving inside of him and smacked his ass. 

"Turn around," I said, sternly. 

And true enough, he was crying. Tears had streaked down his cheeks, and they were not completely from joy, even if some gratitude still flickered through his remembered horror, that gratitude now present within the way he obeyed me immediately. There was a hatred in his eyes, yet it was a hatred turned inwards, a hatred at his own weakness, and perhaps, perhaps a ghost of all the voices that had told him his tendencies were depraved and wrong. 

In short, he was a mess. He broke my heart in that moment, and I knew what I had to do, knew the only way to bring him out of it. 

I lifted my hand out beside his face, palm wide, looking at it meaningfully, then at him.

He nodded.

I slapped him, then, slapped him so hard his hair flew and he staggered back; he howled like a woman, howled and kissed me violently. "Again," he moaned into my mouth, pulling me towards himself by my shirt. He laid down on his back over the coffee table, guiding my cock inside of himself. "Again!" he hissed.

I was filled with fury, hatred at the men who had done this to him, ruined my beautiful Daddy like this; now I truly understood how Torsten himself had felt when he had been healing me with his blows. I smacked his face, smacked his chest, smacked his belly and his thighs until he was red all over, until my hand was stinging. And all the while, I kept fucking him, fucking him as tears flew from his eyes with my slaps, as beads of wetness sprayed from his cock as I slapped it, too, like a primitive witch-doctor exorcising the demons from his body. And when my hand hurt too much, shook too much, I did what I had seen the thugs do to him in the shed: I spat on his face, spat on it and smeared my spittle all over his face with my hand.

And by now, he was wailing, his cock jerking completely hard across his belly; he was holding up his legs like a woman possessed, screaming out all his anguish, all his hatred. "Fuck me!" he shouted, his voice ragged, his face gleaming from spit and tears, all his veins standing up on his temples, his face twisted in a thousand wrinkles. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

I but roared and did so. As much as it hurt my back, I threw my entire weight into the fuck, now, balancing to give him the deepest, the longest of strokes, making the table itself shift and creak with the power of my thrusts. Power, power; I became that power that had been taken from him, now passing it back into his body with my cock, pouring my own, woman's passion into him through it. I looked down between his legs and saw how his ass had distended, stretched, the way it rippled around my cock; greedily, I pulled out entirely. 

"Hold yourself open," I spat and knelt lower, tugging his buttocks apart, my cock swaying. "I want to see inside of you," I said and stroked my cock, pleasuring my pussy, my thighs now wet from my own arousal. 

And he let me, he let me: I shuddered in delight at the sight of the star-shape now made by the distended muscles as they tried to close, a curl of pleasure-disgust licking at my guts as I could see all the way inside of him, see the red, gleaming, heaving walls of his rectum. And there, just a little dash of yellow, just a little--with a moan, I sank my tongue inside and swirled it in his hole. He keened at that, his ass pulsing and clenching so violently he soon pushed my tongue out, but I offered it to him as I climbed over him again and began to fuck him once more.

"Taste it," I hissed into his mouth, giving him a sample, a hint of what was to come; joyous, he sucked my tongue, turning even his mouth into a little pussy, letting me fuck it in time with my tongue. He moaned, swallowed me, groped me with his hands and his legs, the way I always pulled him to myself in my greed at the brink of orgasm. 

He pulled his mouth off mine and panted, sneaking his hand to his cock; I let him. "Let me come," he snarled, his hand flying on his cock as he tried to get more of my cock inside of himself, tried to get me to penetrate him more fully. "Please, please, God, fuck--"

I slapped him again, then yanked his hand off his cock. "Get up."

There was still a little tension in him; I knew I needed to inflict more violence upon him to truly burn this coldness off him. It was then that I hit upon an idea: I picked up his tie and tied it around his neck, a makeshift leash. He trembled, so maddened from arousal, so close to the edge; when I shoved him off the table, he practically tumbled off it. I did not even give him time to get up; I pressed my foot against his back and ground him into the carpet with my entire weight. 

I yanked on his leash. "To the bedroom." On a cruel whim, I stepped on his back with both feet, rocking upon him a little, crushing the breath out of his lungs. "But _I'm_ taking you there. Don't you dare get up on your feet."

And there we were, little me dragging a six-foot-three man across the floor to the bedroom by his tie, choking him, his face red, his cock dripping, purpling from arousal. He coughed, grabbed at the tie; yet I had left enough slack in it so as not to strangle him completely. His love of this, my discovery of my utter, natural sadism frightened me and aroused me beyond measure; I could feel my pussy juice dripping so far down my thighs it had reached my knees. 

Finally, we reached the bedroom, and he saw what I had left upon the bedside table: the oversized dildo, as big as the lamp beside it. He stared at it, stared, drew in shuddering, wheezing breaths as I let go of the tie. I tugged his head up by the hair and guided him to the bed; his eyes never left the cock. "That's going inside of you later, if you behave. And you do want to behave, don't you?" I said.

"Yes."

I smiled and I kissed him, kissed him long and sweet, warm. For a little while, I held him, hugged him, squeezed him with my arms, making sure he knew he was loved; I cut the tie off his neck and waited until his breathing and his heartbeat were as normal as they could be under the circumstances. 

"And now, I'm going to let you come," I promised, my voice gentle, reassuring. "Turn around; I want you to watch yourself."

I laid down on the bed and guided him to sit upon me, so that he was facing the mirror on the dresser. I had angled it just right, so that he would be able to see all of himself in this position. To see his own beauty, the beauty of the man-woman who now sat upon my cock, this gorgeous creature whose whorishness was so great he could now take this magnificent prick inside of his body with ease. 

"God--!" he cried.

"God's not here, remember?" I said, reminding him of his own words, my thumbs playing at the star on the small of his back. The morning star, the star of Lucifer the defiant, the most beautiful of all angels. "Now, make yourself come. Go on."

If he had been weeping before, now he burned from pure passion, no sorrow left within his fury at all; in his pure, lustful heat, he writhed on top of my cock, enjoying his penetration fully. I knew how it felt to discover the enormity, the shocking expanse of pleasure sodomy could bring, the intensity of the anal orgasm after a long break: little cries of disbelief broke from his lips as he satisfied himself with my cock.

"You're so beautiful," I murmured, watching his reflection in the mirror, "beautiful, beautiful."

"Laura, Laura--" He supported himself with one hand on the bed, stroking his cock, manic; he howled in desperation. 

"Come for me, my girl," I said, the proud father full of love. "Let Daddy see you come."

He jerked on top of me, so violently he nearly fell off my cock; as the first pulse of sperm left his cock he was silent, but as more began to pour out, his moans became louder, louder. Even if he had come earlier, his ejaculate was voluminous, thin, almost clear as it always was when his prostate was stimulated in this manner; even in his wetness, he was like a woman. He flowed over his fist in glistening rivulets, his belly rippling, his face twisted in beautiful agony like a dying martyr's. But what was dying in him now was his shame, his hurt; just as a saint would be lifted into glory and to the heavens, Torsten now blazed with the heat of sin, the flames of Hell, welcomed back into the Devil's fold, my body and my cock bearing him home.

For a long while after, he worshipped me by sucking my cock in gratitude, savouring the taste of his ass, of the glycerine, of the tiniest hints of yellow and brown. I had thought to tease him with this, to offer it to him as a final orgasm trigger, but now it became a sacrament: he swallowed his filth, the traces of my piss into his mouth and this completed, rounded out his satiation. Like a cat, he lapped at my cock and my balls, so completely, so thoroughly that I didn't have the heart to pull him off me even if the straps had, by now, rubbed me raw.

Later, he rested in my arms, I still fully clothed, spooning him, my cock nestled between his buttocks. He kept his eyes on the dildo on the bedside table, and I could tell he was measuring it with a mixture of trepidation and greed.

"I was going to offer it to you later," I said, chuckling into his shoulder. "Not tonight."

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed," he murmured, then turned around in my arms. He caressed my face with his hand, soft and warm, tired, happy. "Thank you."

And finally, finally, my masculinity started to thaw from me; I kissed him and brought his hand to my bow tie. My voice was soft and high, now, again a little girl's; my entire body honey underneath his hands. 

"Anything for my Daddy," I said, melting into his embrace.

***

It took me a week, in fact, to work him into a state where he was ready. And with each passing day, he became more at ease with himself, embraced his body more fully, just as I embraced mine. I made sure nobody disturbed us so that he could spend each day completely at home, completely dressed and made up as a woman. He even shaved his moustache that week, shaved two or three times a day to keep his face as smooth as possible, powdered himself until he was glowing. I continued to tightlace his corsets, now deriving even more satisfaction from the sight of his nipped-in waist now that I performed this act dressed as a man, with a cock between my legs.

And on the seventh day, once he saw that I now wore the larger cock in my harness, so large I could never have hidden it inside my trousers, he _melted._ Never had I been able to lace his corset so tight, never had he applied his make-up as perfectly as he did now, even donning false eyelashes and false nails for the purpose, swanning about the house in the sparkliest of evening dresses and a cloud of floral perfume. 

I looked at my creation in astonishment. "You truly are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I mean it," I said, sprawled as I was on the sofa, smoking one of his cigars. 

He beamed, his eyes never more devilish as he took my hand and led me to the floor. He had put on the slowest, dirtiest jazz record and was now the one leading me in the dance: he took the woman's role, but still guided my body, seduced me with his hips, his legs, the stuffed brassiere pressed against my breasts. And it was the strangest thing to experience: the more power he regained, the more he started to flow towards his usual role--that of the seductor, the one dominant, the one who was doing the taking. I felt distinctly like a private detective led into a trap by a femme fatale, and told him this.

He threw back his head and laughed, a Garbo laugh, his full black wig tossing about his shoulders. "A dream fulfilled! You know, I used to fantasise of being both."

"So did I. And we've done that, now, haven't we?" I smiled up at him, playing with his pearl necklace.

"To us!" he cried and dipped me, pressing a kiss to my breasts, smearing my tuxedo front with his scarlet lipstick. 

It was a perfect night, filled with candlelight and fragrance, with exotic flowers blooming all around us. He had arranged all of this, too, like the most expensive of mistresses; I crowned him with diamonds for his efforts, poured champagne into his mouth from my own. I was possessed of a furious desire, furious. "How can it be possible that I want you so much, after all this time?" I asked as he bent me down on the sofa and pulled off my trousers.

He looked up from between my legs, a little insulted--again, with the keen emotional sense, the emotional paranoia of a woman. "What should I even answer to that?" he laughed as he licked up my cock.

"I'm sorry. I meant it as a compliment," I laughed. "Come here."

"No, no," he said as he lifted up his skirt, lifted his own cock out from between his silk stockings. "I have sometimes asked that myself. And I think this is it, my dear," he laughed as he dipped his cock into my dripping pussy, wet it there. "That you are the prettiest, naughtiest, sweetest little slut of a girl," he groaned and then guided his cock to my ass, "and the most perfect little _faggot._ "

"Eloquent," I laughed at his coarseness, at his vulgarity even at a moment like this, even as I shuddered from the penetration. "Coming from a faggot."

He growled at that, growled and bit my breasts, fucking me so hard the cushions fell off the sofa, until we finally ended up on the floor. He fucked me, fucked me in the ass long and sweet, fucked me until his clip-on earrings fell off, until there were runs in his stockings. And all the while, he stared at my cock, at its heavy weight bouncing between my legs, fucking me until I came not once but twice, punishing me for what I was about to do to him.

And I gave him what he wanted, the words he needed to hear. "I'm going to fuck you so hard for this, you little slut," I hissed as he pounded into me, "fuck your pussy so hard you'll scream, _fuck_ \--" 

With a wail, he pulled out, his cock bobbing, slapping against the blue sequins of his dress. He clawed at his rumpled stockings, shuddered as he tried to breathe in his corset. "Bedroom."

And in the bedroom, I fucked him, ripped and tore the dress off him, fucked him in the ass in front of the mirror like dogs, his cock swaying with each one of my thrusts. And he adored himself, adored the sight of me, the way I smeared his lipstick all over his face with my hand, fucked his mouth with my fingers. Now, he hadn't cleaned himself, the dirty bastard, and I was a little sickened at the smell, yet he whimpered in his chest as he smelled it, too.

"Time for dessert," I said, pulling out of him, signalling for him to stay still, and he did, his eyes fixed upon my cock, the brown and yellow streaks upon its whiteness, the ugly smear caught on the glans. I scooped up a little cream and began to twist my hand into his ass--I had fucked him for so long that now I could fit it inside of him with ease. And what I saw, then, oh, God, oh, God. I swallowed, then forced myself to purr, just like he would have, just like he would have. 

"A little bracelet of _caramel_ , you've given me," I crooned, and he let his head hang, howling in shame; that he should feel shame at a moment like this was my greatest reward. "Such a dirty little girl you are," I continued. "Which one do you want in your mouth? Hmm? My hand or my cock? Which one's going to make you come?"

He sobbed, tugged on his cock and sobbed, looking at me through the mirror, his eyeliner smeared, his whore's face ravaged from his need. "Your hand," he croaked. "Please."

I did not let him have it until I had inserted my cock fully once more; I fucked him slowly, shallowly, lifted him up on his knees so that he could see his cock, see his body. I wrapped one arm around his wasp-waist, holding my dirty hand up to his face. "Is it this you want? Hmm?" I asked as I held him so that he couldn't taste it yet.

"Please!" he cried once more, and I could see his balls lifting as he feasted his eyes on the gleaming ring around my wrist, his hips shuddering against mine. He was on the edge of orgasm, dancing upon the precipice of it, and it was I, who with but a little push of my _hand,_ would make him fall. I was drunk on power in that moment, had never felt as powerful before: I lifted my hand to his lips, my gleaming fingertips his reward.

"Suck."

And he did, he did: with a greedy howl, he sucked my fingers into his mouth, lapped at my wrist, his entire body shaking from his orgasm so that we nearly fell over. He sprayed my arm with his sperm, sprayed the mirror with it as I fucked his orgasm out of him, fucked him onto my hand, shoving it so deep into his throat tears flowed down his cheeks. On and on I kept fucking him, smearing his mouth with his shit as I had smeared it with his lipstick, fucking him until he was wrung dry, so slack in my arms he barely breathed.

And in my arms, he collapsed, sliding off my cock, my hand; I held him there in front of the mirror, a twisted Pietà. Yet it had been the abused Torsten who had now been slain, and Hermaphroditus had come to life in my arms; I kissed him and kissed him, his mouth, his cock, stripped us both and gathered him into my arms.

"I love you," he said, in a voice like a child's, sucking on my breasts like a babe as we lay upon the bed.

"And I love you, Daddy," I said, guiding his half-hard cock inside of my pussy, holding him inside of my body, sheltering him, keeping him safe.

We fell asleep thus, a decadent, exquisite sculpture of flesh that had transcended male and female, floating into sleep suspended in the mist of candlelight and perfume.


	6. Chapter 6

He is in prison.

Torsten is in prison and I am walking towards his cell, escorted by guards. I can hear the sea, I can hear seagulls; perhaps this is Alcatraz, and we don't live so very far away from there, now, do we? The corridors are long, the lights harsh, the guards whistling at me, one patting my ass as he ushers me into Torsten's cell. I know this is a dream as they leave me alone with Torsten in the cell; they would never allow this otherwise.

I know they are about to execute him soon; I know that I am here as his angel of death, know that I am to take him before they do.

"It's time," I tell him.

He looks at me, and the sea in his eyes is pale, placid, calm.

He fucks me, fucks me for one last time in the cell, in the narrow, yellow cell. I love him so much, gather the last of his love into my body, whatever is left of Torsten the man, the woman, my Father as I hold him inside of my flesh. We orgasm in unison, and for a moment, there is sunlight, sunlight shining upon our faces, the seagulls crying out in triumph, and we are free.

But then it's over. He holds out his hands. I undo my belt, a rope that's been looped about my waist multiple times. His hands, his long-fingered, beautiful, pale, feminine hands tie it deftly into a noose, and my heart is pounding in my ears. He smiles at me, tears in his eyes, telling me I have been such a good girl, always there for her Daddy, all the way until the end. 

I help him attach the rope to the lamp-hook in the ceiling, help the rope around his neck and kiss him, kiss him. 

"See you in Hell, Daddy," I whisper.

He smiles and he smiles, angelic, radiant, light; he blows me a kiss and lets go.

The rope snaps his neck instantly; Hell has heard his prayers. I tug on his legs to make sure, to make absolutely sure, and he is purple, he is limp, he is dead; his erection brushes my ear through his uniform. 

_Angel lust._ I undo his fly and suck his cock, suck out all the sperm and the piss that now leave his body as it loosens, slackens, becomes a corpse. My Daddy, my Daddy: I eat him, imbibe the last of him, swallow the last remains of my Beloved; sucking his very soul into my body, warm in my belly even as his flesh grows cold.

"Laura!"

The guards are after me. I must be quick. But I have forgotten something. I was sure I'd brought a poison, a dagger, and now there's not enough rope--no, no! This is not how it's supposed to end. I must die with him, die with my Daddy.

"Laura!"

Torsten was leaning over me, shaking me awake. My heart was pounding, still, and even as I recognised him, I screamed, just as I had been screaming in the dream. 

"Laura!" he kept on shaking me by the shoulders, and finally, when I would not stop screaming, he slapped me. "Calm down!"

I shuddered, curled up into a ball, my heart still pounding in my ears. The dream had been real, so real; my entire body was rattling with shock, my blood awash with all the chemicals of panic. "Hold me."

He grumbled a little; he was half-dressed and now he had to take his trousers off so as not to wrinkle them. His noise of protest hurt me more than his slap had done; I was weeping by the time he climbed into bed in his vest, sock garters and underpants.

"You don't understand," I said through chattering teeth. "I dreamt you in prison, I--you died."

"I'm right here," he murmured, hugging me tight against himself. "Alive and well, as you can see."

"Don't go. Please."

"I have to. Doctor's appointment, remember?" he kissed my hair. "My back's been acting up, probably from fucking you so much," he laughed. "I'll ask him to prescribe something for you as well; for the nightmares."

I shook my head. "No psychiatric drugs. Ever again." I'd rather die than touch a barbiturate again.

"Opiates, then," he said and hugged me again, then planted a kiss on my cheek. "You've always loved those. But I really must go, now. The Rothschilds want to see me after, for an antiques auction. I'll see if I can buy something nice for my little girl to make her feel better." He clasped my chin. "All right?"

"All right, Daddy," I sighed. 

But I wasn't all right. I was developing cabin fever: as the day progressed, I wished I had asked Torsten to take me to town with him, so I could have gone shopping to distract myself. I'd already had a morning swim in the pool, had busied myself by cooking myself a hefty breakfast to exorcise the demons of the night, and now I was bored out of my skull. The radio didn't interest me--all the daytime dramas were dull and toothless housewife fare, and I was not in the mood for music. I thought of reading, but only one third of our books had ever made it to San Francisco; I had already given up on ever seeing the rest of them again. Most of the books in Torsten's office were his occult tomes, ones I had gone through already and found lacking.

Yet now I found a volume on oneiromancy that I had not read before, not having had that pressing an interest in dreams. I hoped it would tell me a dream about death merely signified a major change, a letting go of a part of one's life, the same way the Death card of the Tarot symbolised a rebirth of sorts. But since it was one of Torsten's Hindu scriptures, full of hysterical pessimism and superstition, it remained adamant: a dream of death meant that physical death would result in six months. 

I slammed the book shut and groaned. Death. Of course. To Torsten or I, I wondered? No, I was not that superstitious; Torsten had always been the one of us more reliant on astrology, on omens and talismans, on the unseen world. But my mood hadn't been helped by the book; I pushed it back between its gloomy sisters and resolved to take a bath. Perhaps even a full colonic rinse, to get toxins out of my system, to force myself to relax with something physically intense now that Torsten wasn't here to whip me into shape.

I was still running the bath when the phone rang. 

"I've found the most _exquisite_ of presents for you at the auction, my child," Torsten purred, his tone of voice making it clear that this present was of the sensual sort. "I suggest you make yourself ready for when I return."

I burst into laughter--again, we had been telepathic. "I was just about to have an enema. It seems I knew already."

"Why am I not surprised?" he said. "Listen, how about I bring some friends?"

"You don't have any friends."

He made a pretend-insulted noise, a pitying little croon. "Laura, Laura. I was thinking of... playmates. Girls. Quality girls."

"What sort of auction was this?" I laughed. I had an absurd image in my mind of an Orientalist painting, of Torsten in a turban and robes, haggling for nubile girls in the marketplace. "And why wasn't I invited?"

He chuckled into the receiver. "I was only told it was a private event. All the items were of an erotic nature, from the estate of some rich eccentric."

A shudder went through me. "Not Smythe's, I hope."

"They never told us. But I made some... connections, shall we say. A very refined German widow gave me her business card. I asked around and apparently she is the best, most creative madame this side of the continent. Ran a successful business in Berlin before the Reich forced her out--their loss, our gain. She had a few of her girls with her. Very charming little creatures, exactly your type; soft, voluptuous, feminine."

I wanted to say I was too tired, but I was tempted. He was making an effort for my sake, and I didn't have the heart to say no. And I sure as hell needed a distraction. "All right. As long as I don't have to play the man."

"I remember," he said, scolding me a little. "Which is exactly why I think you will like them."

"I've got to go. The bath's running over."

"See you in a few hours," he sing-songed and hung up.

I sunk into the bathtub and wondered what he had meant about the girls having been my type. Soon enough, my hand strayed to my pussy, and my subconscious elaborated, embroidered upon the dream of the painting I had seen in my mind. As the relaxing herbs of my bath soaked into my flesh, my mind floated into visions of orgies on silken beds, Torsten the cruel lord holding court over a mass of soft, naked female bodies, whip in hand. Much more preferable than dreams of prisons and death, I thought; into this sea of flesh I sunk, Torsten's satisfied chuckle curling at the back of my mind like a cat's tail. 

***

"Erotica!" Torsten cried as he waltzed in through the door, carrying a heavy, gilded book under his arm. "Come and have a look."

"Where are your friends?" I asked him as I followed him into the office. I was only wearing a light green silk kimono and the lightest make-up, with my hair pinned up; I wondered if he was disappointed at my not having made more of an effort.

But he only looked at me up and down and smiled a little; he was in great cheer. "The girls are coming later. But first, I want you to look at your present."

He laid the book down on the desk, sat in his chair and pulled me to sit in his lap, chuckling as I yelped, trying to balance on his reed-thin thighs. His happiness was infectious; I found myself laughing with him, the twinkle in his eyes warming my heart and my belly.

"Stay still!" he laughed, clutching me tight.

"I am!"

"Now, then," he said and turned to the book, as if he was opening a storybook for a bedtime tale. "Daddy bought this book especially for you. It's got lots and lots of pretty pictures. Shall we begin?"

"Yes, please," I said, my voice lighter; a great weight fell off my shoulders as I could again slide into the persona of the child.

It was a book on the history of erotic art, some extremely rare, private commission printed by hand. It was filled with a staggering variety of people from all periods of history having sex in all its forms, a cavalcade of bodies rutting before us in engravings, paintings, lithographs, daguerreotypes. And what's more, whoever had compiled it had had an eye for beauty. Here, the crudest, ugliest types of pornographic drawings--the sorts that always reminded me of the dirty doodlings of schoolboys--were absent. Here, an etching of Casanova's prick watercoloured in in delicate pink Rococo hues; there, a saucy French postcard of two women in a lesbian embrace and here, a Mughal miniature of a mistress being lowered upon a sultan in a swing-like contraption expressly designed for sex. Even the most perverse of acts were depicted in style, with great invention and artistic skill: this book elevated pornography to a true art form. 

"But this is beautiful!" I exclaimed.

"It is," he said, kissing my neck, the scratch of his moustache hardening my nipples. "Now, Daddy wants you to read it while he goes and freshens himself up a little. And when I come back, I want you to tell me what you liked the most. Do you think you can do that?"

I nodded eagerly as I slid off his lap. "Yes, Daddy."

He pinched my cheek. "Good girl. When I come back, I want you to tell me everything. How you touched yourself, what you thought of, and what you would like Daddy to try with you. All right?"

"All right," I said and kissed his cheek.

Half an hour later, he found me hunched over the desk, my kimono thrown open, my hand between my legs. I had been torturing myself, desperately trying not to orgasm yet, saving it up for him. I had come twice while having a bath, so I wasn't as frustrated as I could have been; now, I had but maintained a steady, warm, humming erotic glow that burst into flame as he entered the room. Whereas I was hot and sweaty, some of my hair having come loose, he was now freshly shaven, washed, pomaded, barefoot in his blue silk pyjama bottoms and a scarlet silk dressing gown. 

I leaned back and looked at him lazily, adoring. "Welcome back, Daddy."

"I see you've been enjoying yourself." He chuckled and cupped my bare breasts from behind; I leaned my head back into his silks and inhaled his perfumes of musk and sandalwood. They were exotic, masculine perfumes, them and the silks returning me to my Oriental fantasy once more. And if he was about the play the master to a harem tonight, well, it was only appropriate.

"How many girls are you bringing, Daddy?"

"You greedy little thing! It's a secret. You'll find out. Now, show me your favourite pictures," he said, pulling me to sit in his lap again, his hand cupping my belly, his fingertips playing at the top of my mound. "Whatever has made you smell this sweet, my dear?" he laughed.

I flicked through the book to my favourite page. It was a realistic colour painting depicting a man sinking into a woman's ass from behind, so that we could only see their asses, their genitals, in all their flushed and gleaming beauty.

"Very nice," he crooned, dipping his fingertips lower, brushing them across the top of my slit. "Now, tell me what you like about it, my child."

And oh, the psychological game of this--he knew I needed something this intense. That he should ask me to vocalise my desire, to break through all the barriers of chastity laid in front of girls and women--it was never easy to speak of what one's mind and body wanted, needed, felt. There were hardly any words for these things; so few women ever spoke of lust and sex, and even fewer outside the whorehouse. I had found it easier to describe my desires, my fetishes in my letters to him, to act them out as games. But to speak of them out loud always felt difficult, no matter how complete a debauchee I was by now.

And he wanted to break through that, just as I had wanted to break through his traumas regarding homosexuality: even as he framed this as a dominant act and derived pleasure from it as such, he was doing this to help me. He knew I needed this, needed it as a form of therapy to bring out the true Laura I was, the true libertine, the true harlot he saw in me. I tried not to cry, focusing on my arousal instead, analysing what it was exactly that my eyes, my soul and my body found pleasing about the picture; whatever it was that made my pussy pulse and wet at the sight.

"Well, I love it, because..."

"Yes?" he said, kissing my ear, making my pussy clench so that I lost whatever words I had managed to gather up. 

"Stop distracting me, Daddy!"

"Oh, I _do_ apologise," he purred. "Go on."

"It's because I love it when you fuck me like that," I said quietly, feeling like such a fool, but he urged me on with his fingertips, slipping them between my folds and wetting them before he brought them to my clitoris. I shuddered in delight, bit my lip and continued. "Because you can get so deep in that position, hit just the right spot, so that I lose my mind."

"Mm-hmm?" he continued, licking his fingers, savouring my taste. "Daddy likes fucking you like that, too," he said, and I could feel his cock hardening against me. "It feels good for me, too, to be that deep," he sighed, "all the way."

"I also like how you can see everything," I murmured as he started to rub me again, now determined to be articulate, to defy shame with each detail I described. "The way they're both shaven, just like you and I, so you can see it all, so you know how good every touch feels against the bare skin. And you can see just how aroused they are, how wet and hard they are."

He chuckled deep in his throat. "I much prefer to see it from this angle myself. I can never see your pussy or your face in that position, and it's such a shame. I like seeing both," he sighed, bringing his other hand to my breasts. "And these lovely big tits here, too."

I whimpered, so close to orgasm now. "I like seeing her pussy, too."

"That's what I was thinking. You _do_ so love looking at pussies, don't you?" he leered. "Much more than you enjoy looking at naked men."

"Yes," I whispered.

He was right. Every time we had been out to sex clubs, I had enjoyed looking at beautiful men, watching the homosexual floorshows, but it was the _women_ who had always made me crazy from lust. There was just something about the softness, the curves of a woman's body that I responded to, a femininity that I also responded to in men. Yet I knew I was not a complete lesbian, nor did I respond to overly masculine women. Now, I forgot about my arousal, this confession bringing out my neurosis, that one part of myself I had always felt strange about. Whereas other people were uncomfortable with their homosexual urges, I always felt I was somehow not homosexual _enough_ to be a true deviant, and this bothered me.

"But you know I prefer you, Daddy," I whispered. "I can't explain it. I can look at a naked woman, touch her, taste her, but as soon as I have to take her... it turns psychological rather than physical. Even as I took you, that happened. I loved you psychologically, was aroused psychologically and that was what pleasured me, but I could never come the same way I do as when I am underneath a man, penetrated by a man," I huffed, angry at the unfairness of this. "I can't _come_ fucking a woman because I don't have a real cock. I just don't have pleasure nerves in what I'm taking her with; I can't come through my tongue or my fingers or a penis made of just rubber," I blurted, so frustrated now it hurt.

And now he was about to bring me women. I felt like such a failure and hung my head; I even grabbed his wrist and stopped his hand, this close to tears. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

"Don't; don't," he crooned, caressing me despite my resistance. "I know."

"There's something wrong with me. I just prefer being taken. Like a _normal_ woman," I spat.

"Stop that right now, Laura." He turned me around in his lap and hugged me tight. "There are receptive men like that, you know. Even if they have perfectly functional cocks, sometimes _huge_ cocks," he said a little bitterly, "they don't enjoy being the dominant partner. Some people are more feminine in their desires than others; you know that. And I love you like that, as it happens."

"It still bothers me," I mumbled into his shoulder. "I don't want to be normal."

"You've described what you are rather well, I think. You like touching and tasting women, lying with women, yes?"

"Yes."

"But prefer to have a cock inside of you, yes? Prefer to be dominated, fucked?"

"Yes," I grumbled, and this conversation was the most absurd one I'd ever had, even beyond the times I'd been psychoanalysed. I had to laugh, a laughter touched by hysteria. "If that helps any."

"Well, that's what I want to give you tonight, my child," he said, pulling back so that he could look at me, my arms still around his neck. "Bathe you in women, the luscious, sweet softness of women, and you won't have to act the man at all."

 _A suave bath, scented with ointments,_ the bath of femininity, the androgynising force to which Baudelaire had credited his genius. Torsten craved this bath, that much was obvious. I wonder if he had, in fact, touched a single woman after Birgitte; I doubted it. Both of us could use a little pussy to soften things up, that was true, so I knew his desires weren't altogether altruistic.

"And this would have nothing whatsoever to do with you wanting to have an orgy," I smirked, now rubbing my pussy against his erection a little.

He tilted his head and made a mock-pout. "A little." He smacked my ass with both hands. "It'll cheer both of us up."

"I hate to say it, but I'm tired." 

"I have just the thing for that." He made for his briefcase and took out a little snuffbox. "Restocked our cocaine supply." But before he could cut a line for me, we heard the sound of an approaching car. "That'll be the girls," he said, pecking me on the cheek and tying up his robe. "You'd better hurry."

Gladly, I snorted the cocaine, grateful for the energising rush of it, all of my limbs filling with power, my blood rushing hot, molten. What had I been so anxious about? It was ridiculous. I, too, tied up my kimono and hoped the wet stain wouldn't show through the back; I fixed my makeup in the mirror and went to greet our guests. As the cocaine surged through me, I felt as if my veins rose onto my skin like golden vines and crowned me, vines of heat, of lust, lianas of desire curling all around my arms and legs and snaking out of my pussy. At that, I laughed deliriously as I realised Torsten must have put more than just cocaine into the powder--some sort of mild hallucinogen, perhaps. I didn't mind this; I didn't mind it at all.

A living Art Nouveau maiden of vines and silk, I flowed, sashayed into the living room. Torsten had rented three girls for the night, it turned out: we'd never had sex with that many women at once, and I thought the idea titillating. Torsten poured all of us champagne and clinked glasses with all the girls--all very smartly dressed, one of them a blonde, one of them a redhead, one with hair as black as ink. All three girls had the creamiest, softest skin; each one was a little plump, voluptuous. Oh, he knew me too well; the girls were so perfect this heightened the dreamlike mood I was in.

"To women," Torsten purred, sprawling on the sofa, his eyes sparkling with lust, sparkling like the champagne, his voice bubbling with laughter. "Ash, Cherry, Ebony, meet Cleo."

I threw back my head and laughed; this _was_ a dream and I was well down the rabbit hole. "Don't I get named after a tree?" I smirked at him.

"Willow, perhaps?" he said and undid my robe, "for the softness of your pussy. Take a good look at it, girls. But don't touch her yet."

Soon enough, the girls had all surrounded me on the sofa and on the floor, devouring me with their eyes. Three pairs of eyes, blue, green, brown, and I wondered why the girls hadn't been named after gems instead of trees, so brightly their eyes glittered, a row of jewels about to wrap about me and choke me, a new collar for Torsten to strangle me with.

"She _is_ pretty," the blonde, Ash, crooned; the other girls concurred, all with true lesbian lust burning in their eyes. That, or they were marvellous actors; I now knew what Torsten had meant about them being the best courtesans money could buy. Or, knowing him, he had summoned them here through some ancient rite, had invited Lilith and her kind in for a party; I laughed a little to myself, my head lolling against the back of the sofa.

"These are very special girls," he chuckled, running his fingertips up and down my neck, making me swoon. His eyes were glimmering with Babylonian delight as he kissed me. "Now, I have told them about you and your inclinations, and have told them to play accordingly." He sank his fingers into my hair, then tightened their grip, pulled my head past the back of the sofa until sparks of sweet pain flew down my vine-veins, pain hardening my nipples, pain blossoming in my pussy. "You see, my dear, it's not that they're going to be our playthings," he whispered into my ear, moist, hoarse, animal. "Oh, no. It's _you_ who will be serving _us._ "

I gasped, spasmed on the sofa, all my reactions heightened, made more dramatic by the drug, as if I was lost in some surrealist silent film. I wanted to scream, but he aborted my scream with his mouth, his beast's maw. I tried to get up, tried to run, a sudden panic kicking me in the stomach, but he pinned me to the sofa, taking me by the throat. And at my feet, oh, at my feet the girls but laughed, crooned again, in lamia voices that terrified me, chilled me to the bone. I wanted to tell Torsten to stop, that he did not know the depths of sadism women were capable of, knowing how much more pain other women could take.

Torsten pulled back and let go of me completely, looking at me pointedly, challenging me, his vast eyes a blue wall I could not get past. My body and my mind sank into a chaos; I was torn apart by desire and terror, a whirlwind of heat and chills, sweat beading upon my brow. I was hyperventilating, staring, clutching at the sofa, hysterical even as I wanted this, even if my arousal hurt me by now, a molten-lead weight at the bottom of my pelvis. But I couldn't stay still, couldn't; I made to get up, made to say something.

Torsten but raised his eyebrow. "Chase her."

I ran. And sure enough, the girls came after me, shrieking in delight, hungry like bloodhounds; I wondered if they had been taking drugs as well. I knew where each door was, thought of locking myself in the bathroom, but they were surrounding me from all sides, their neatly coiffed hair coming loose, their eyes gleaming and their faces flushed, their dresses riding up their thighs. This was a maenad chase, and Torsten Dionysos himself, leering and sipping his champagne as he watched us, one arm draped over the back of the sofa.

I made a lunge for the living room, at Torsten, not because I thought he would have mercy upon me, but perhaps if I slapped him, he would end this game. I was too terrified, I--

But then the girls were upon me. They tackled me onto the floor right in front of Torsten, and now I was screaming, shouting, kicking, slapping, clawing at them; yet Torsten had taught them well. They slapped me back with equal force, tearing my kimono off me, pulling at my hair until I was mewling, panting as they dragged me to my feet. From the corner of my eye, past the flurry of the furies, I could see Torsten nodding at them. 

Cherry yanked my arms behind my back and huffed against my ear gleefully, her heavy breasts pressed against my back. "Aren't you going to apologise?"

"What for?" I whimpered, now so wet my thighs were sticking together, whimpered ever louder as Ash came to stand in front of me to pinch my nipples, pulling on them harder and harder until my breasts were but pain, pain, pain.

Ebony took my hair and lifted me up by it until I was on my toes, until I could no longer make a noise for my agony. "For disobeying the Master."

Torsten wove his cigarette through the air, his dressing gown sleeve sluicing down his arm like arterial blood. "You shouldn't hold this against them, my dear. They're only obeying my orders. Although in this case, we are of the same mind: you have been a _very_ naughty little girl and need to be punished."

"That's right," Ash said as she stopped torturing my breasts, kneading them instead, and her teeth were white, her canines so sharp that in my delirium, I fancied her a vampire; that she might bite my breasts and suck me dry. 

"But what shall we call you? Hmm?" Cherry said, tucking her chin over my shoulder, rutting against my ass, her eyes an absinthe-louche green. Oh, Torsten, Torsten and this damned drug! I felt I was in the middle of a horror novel, he Dracula--with his widow's peak!--and they his brides, about to drain me of life for his pleasure.

"Yes, what shall we call her?" Ebony echoed, tugging me by the hair with the firmness of a dance tutor, forcing me to sway in front of Torsten on my toes, a sadistic ballet.

Torsten took one last drag off his cigarette and stumped it, deliberately prolonging the moment. He strolled over to me casually, his hands in his pockets, looking at me up and down, relishing the sight. Ash moved aside as he caressed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, his crooked teeth sharp, the smile of a wolf. "I think there's only one thing we can call her," he said, with mock-regret. _"Whore."_

He pulled back his hand and slapped me so fast, with such force I blacked out, would have fallen down had Ebony not been holding me up. "Because that's what you are, aren't you?" he said softly, perversely like a mother cooing to a baby as it calls it a sweet little thing. "Yes, you are!" he said, his voice a near-giggle as my eyes refocused on him in front of me.

I could no longer cry, could no longer fight; the pain had pushed me into a state of stillness, introversion, a dark calm. He was right, yet even if the realisation of this usually made me sob with gratitude, with the hysterical devotion of a religious madwoman, I was now perfectly tranquil on the inside. In silence, I watched as a bead of blood fell from my lip onto my naked breasts, then another, my signature as I consigned my soul to the Devil once more.

"Yes," I murmured.

Torsten drew his finger across my chest, tracing an inverted pentagram across my heart with the blood, echoing our tattoos, a ritual of acceptance, an acknowledgement of my neophyte having passed yet another trial. Again, I wanted to weep, weep from my love for him, but the pain held me in a catatonic, numb state of inertia. 

Torsten noticed this, licked his fingertip and gestured for the girls to let me go. "Under the coffee table," he said to them while holding me up by my arms, "get undressed while you are at it."

From the corner of my eye, I saw he had given the girls our toy box; now that the pain had lessened, I shuddered once more. Yet he gathered me into his arms and held me tight, crushing me against his chest the way I so loved, kissing me deeply until I woke up a little. "It's going to be all right," he murmured into my mouth, caressing my breasts, my buttocks, my belly, my back even as the girls picked up whips and dildos from the box. In this manner, he kept enjoying my skin while it was still unmarked, white, smooth. "We'll make it so good for you, my little whore," his words flowed into my mouth like honey, thick and slow and sweet. "So good."

"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered against his lips, not opening my eyes, swooning into his embrace.

"Good girl. Now." He turned to stand behind me and presented me to the now-naked girls. "Tell them what you like about women."

All three girls rose up lithely like dancers; my vision was still so distorted from the drugs their limbs left pale traces in the air, under the harsh ceiling lights--Torsten often wanted to see every detail as we fucked, but now the light nearly blinded me. I still felt a small curl of shame as the girls stared at me, demanding a worship of their beauty; knowing how sensitive women could be about their looks, now I was under even more pressure to be not just honest, but passionate about what it was that I found attractive in them. 

"I like breasts," I murmured, realising as soon as I'd said it that I had sounded blunt, idiotic, drunk, like a teenaged boy. "I'm so sorry," I said and hung my head. "But you are beautiful; I mean--"

All three girls moved closer to me, as if choreographed; I wondered how closely Torsten had instructed them, as if he had given them a list of all my possible reactions and how to deal with them. They began to touch me in unison, kissing my hair, my neck, my shoulders, pressing their breasts against me, offering them to my mouth, brushing them against my cheeks. _A bath of women, a bath of women, a bath of women._ Drunk, I reeled, Torsten's silk-covered erection a brand against my back. 

"What else?" he prompted me and let go of my hands, guiding me to return the girls' caresses.

"This softness," I murmured and leaned down to kiss and suck at the three pairs of breasts, avidly, stroking them, cupping them, squeezing them until the girls made the sweetest noises, those noises sending pulse after pulse of pleasure to my pussy. "So sweet, so fresh, so warm," I sighed, enveloped in their perfumes of lilies and roses and gardenias, a soft, white and pastel gentleness in contrast to the dark virility of Torsten's colognes.

"Mm-hmm," Torsten purred, now kissing each of the girls in turn as they divested him of his clothes, kissing them deeply, passionately so that they trembled. Silently, I wondered about that: if there was a man who could make even a prostitute respond, to take joy in her work, it would have been Torsten; his handsomeness, his skill obviously pleased the girls to the point where they were not just play-acting. He must've bitten Ebony's tongue, for she drew back, her eyes flashing, and she slapped him lightly: he but groaned in delight, his erection rutting wet between my buttocks. "Good girls," he continued, "good girls."

"What else do you like?" Ash asked me, flushed with arousal, her pupils so enlarged her eyes were now the colour of blueberries. She stepped away and stretched luxuriously, obviously competing for attention, offering her body to my eyes.

Naturally, inevitably I was drawn to the cleft between her legs; all the girls were clean-shaven the way we preferred it, and I wondered if Torsten had shaved them himself, or if they had been using razors on each other, arousing each other in this manner before they had arrived. I could smell their pussies, my own, the air now heavy and thick from the sugar of arousal; Ash's inner labia peeked from between the round, full pale lips of her mound, swollen a dark rose red. 

"I like pussies," I said, even if it felt absurd to say that, but oh, how liberating it was! Slipping from Torsten's grip, I fell to my knees and adored all three pussies, now, nuzzling each girl between the legs, dizzy from the scent. "Pussies," I sighed in awe, giving each one a little lick, the girls' laughter like bells in my ears. 

"And what do you like doing to pussies?" Torsten said, petting my hair. 

I turned to him, asking permission. "I like to kiss them."

"But is there something you like even more?" he said, moving to stand behind Cherry, spreading the lips of her vulva for me, massaging it until she moaned. 

"Yes," I laughed, "I like to watch."

Abruptly, Torsten let go of Cherry and slapped her on the ass, making her yelp in delight. "And so you shall. But we must get you ready. Get up."

I staggered to my feet, licking pussy-sugar from my lips, now so aroused moving hurt. Yet Torsten pretended to be insulted at the clumsy way I rose, smiling as he curled his hand around my throat. "I said 'up,' whore."

"But--" I croaked, but he cut off my breath. My heart kicked into a gallop and I struggled, trying to prise his hand off my throat, but he held me with superhuman strength. Such a thin man, so feminine and yet so strong, so strong as he lifted me onto my toes with the force of but one arm, tilting his head in that awful, awful, reptilian way of his as he observed me. "Up."

I panicked, fearing he would snap my neck, my eyes bulging from their sockets. But it was exactly then that he slackened his grip a little, letting me draw in a little breath. "There's a good whore. Now stand very still. Ebony."

Ebony pretended to consider various toys, holding in her hands both the medium-sized white dildo and the wide steel plug. "Which one, Master?"

Torsten tsked and shook his head. "Neither," he crooned. "Look for the biggest one," he said. "She needs to be taught a lesson."

"No!" I shouted as I saw Ebony pick up the giant dildo, the way all the girls seemed shocked at the size of it, as thick as a man's arm.

Torsten tightened his grip and lifted me once more, squeezing my throat, my jugular veins until my vision went purple and white. "What's the matter, whore?" _You used it on me, didn't you?_ his voice was saying, and now it was clear to me he had been planning this for a while, his laughter high from sweet vengeance. "You won't get to lick a single pussy until you've taken your punishment."

I choked, trying to say no, even as my pussy betrayed me, pulsing and pulsing, smearing my inner thighs completely. Ash noticed this, slapping my legs apart, tapping my pussy with her hand from behind. "She wants it. Can you hear how wet she is?" she laughed, slapping me harder and harder, the wet sounds of me ringing in the room, and I wanted the earth to swallow me.

Torsten shook his head. "She's always like that when she knows she's going to get fucked in the ass," he said fondly, letting go of me again. "Aren't you, whore?" he snapped and slapped me again.

"Yes," I sobbed, because did I have a choice? I had taken that enema beforehand, had masturbated with some fingers in my ass earlier, had even taken Torsten's hand a couple of days before, but I was still terrified. "But not immediately, not yet, oh, please--"

Torsten pretended to consider and addressed the girls. "Should we have mercy on her?"

Cherry weighed the plug in her hand. "Perhaps. I've never seen one of these. How do you use it?"

"It's for stretching the ass," Torsten drawled. "Very well. Bring it here. But first, warm her up a little more."

And before he had even finished, I heard the swish of his cat o'nine tails: Ash barely had any time to duck as Ebony lashed me across the buttocks. She struck me hard the first time, and I hated Torsten for this, hated him and would have been swearing in his face had he not been choking me again, holding me up with his hand as Ebony drowned me in pain once more. She must've been an experienced _domina_ to be wielding the whip with such force, such precision, from just the right distance; going by Ash's wet noises, by her licking of her lips, my juices must have sprayed her mouth.

"You, too," Torsten said to Ash and Cherry, moving back a little while still holding me by the throat. "Slap her. All over. As hard as you can."

And they did, they did: I was surrounded by pain from all sides, the girls raining blows upon me mercilessly, their hands singing upon my flesh, their nails dragging down my ribs, their hands pinching my pussy and my breasts. I was glowing all over, not even aware of when I was breathing or not breathing, even if I could tell whenever Torsten loosened his grip; all I could feel was the red, red, red heat of the pain, the blue, blue, blue of his eyes, boring into my soul, he holding me still with his gaze as much as he was holding me still with his hand. 

I could feel the steel plug being pressed into me, dipped into me; I could not tell which one of the girls it was who now fucked my asshole with it, forced the muscles to stretch, relentless, inescapable. Nor could I tell which girl's hand it was that now rubbed my pussy, which girl now spat on my face, spat into my eyes and smared my makeup with her hand until kohl-stained spit ran down Torsten's wrist; I was blind, blind, blind. "Whore," they kept repeating at me, with the full hatred of the prostitute who had been thus scorned all her life, "Slut," they yelled in my ear as they spat in it, smacked it, again "Whore," as they lashed and clawed at my buttocks so violently I could tell they were drawing blood. I could not even sob, could not even cry; I hung upon Torsten's hand, lifted up and surrounded by this whirlwind of pain, impaled upon the heavy steel now penetrating me, their insults gliding down my body like caresses.

Finally, finally my body swallowed the plug: I jerked and Torsten thrust me off himself so that I fell onto the floor, motionless, lifeless. My eyes rolled back in my head; the weight of the plug, the pain all over my body having pushed me into a trance state from the nervous overload.

I could feel them moving around me, inspecting me, caressing my hair, my ass, my pussy. 

"I've never seen an ass like that, so distended." Ash.

"See how much she likes it!" Ebony. Perhaps it was she who now dragged her fingertips through my pussy, scooping up my honey.

"Such a good little pet." Cherry. Cherry kissing my hair, kissing the welts upon my back.

"And we've barely even started," Torsten. Torsten lifting my head with his foot, tickling my chin with his toes, grinning down at me. 

I opened my eyes and he was beautiful: only now did I realise he was wearing one of his steel rings around the root of his genitals so as to extract more pleasure from each touch, so as to keep himself hard for hours, the favourite tool of the orgiast. The tip of his cock was wet, pre-ejaculate streaking all the way down his shaft, a sign that he had not even touched himself yet, choosing to drive his arousal up to its highest peak before he let himself go. His self-control, his natural-born dominance never ceased to astound me, awakening a spiritual reverence, a _latria_ of the flesh within me. My father, my master, my everything; I kissed his toes in supplication, humbled by his majesty, by this gift he was now giving me.

"Daddy."

He smiled a little, tenderly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a dark happiness. "I think she's ready for the big one," he murmured, wiping a stray strand of hair from my face with his toes. "Cherry, you lick her pussy; Ebony, you do the honours."

I mumbled something indistinct; my tongue was thick in my mouth. I convulsed upon the floor as the plug was pulled out of me, as it landed on the floor with a heavy thud. I could hear Torsten interrupting the girls for a brief moment so that he could bring them more glycerine: a little mercy at last, even if it was only to serve his cruelty, his revenge. My breathing stopped, my entire body stiffened as Ebony began to ease the giant dildo inside of my ass, as Torsten's large hands held me open. I could barely feel Cherry's tongue upon my pussy, could not make out the soft words Ash crooned to me as she took my head into her lap and stroked my hair. As the head of the dildo slid past the deepest gate of my sphincter muscles, I went into full convulsions, exactly as I had when I had overdosed, afraid I would have to go back to the hospital--

"No," I moaned. "No, no, no--they're going to take me away, Daddy, no--"

He was kneeling beside me in seconds, cupping my face in his hands. "Shh. Breathe."

"I can't," I mouthed, silently, my entire body locked up, the heat now gone from me.

"Yes, you can," he said, and Cherry sucked upon my clitoris more violently, and I was sure she could sense it had retracted, shrunk, because I felt colder even down there, now. 

"Daddy--"

"Shh. Almost there, almost there," he crooned, kissing my eyelids, kissing my tears, drinking them in his sadism even as he comforted me, his erection shifting against his belly with his pleasure. "Then you'll get to play with us. Just a few inches more. There you are, there you are."

I don't know how long I lay there; despite the drugs, despite my arousal, despite my relaxation this was harder than taking Torsten's hand inside of me, even if his hand was a little wider than the toy. But I steeled myself, wanting to prove myself to him, wanting to prove I was as much of a pervert as he was, as much of a faggot as he was, able to take such a monstrous cock inside of me. A girl-faggot, his girl-faggot, the one he so loved for enjoying sodomy so much, the one who enjoyed being pleasured by her own sex as much as her father enjoyed being fucked by men, oh, oh--

Sexes, fetishes, orientations no longer made sense to me, and how could they have? I was floating in a sea of cock and pussy and breast and ass, ass, ass, my ass stretched beyond its natural capacity by the ferocity of desire itself, that law of the all-devouring life force Torsten and I had sworn to uphold. This was his bath: not just that of woman, but of man, of sex itself, of the phallus and the vulva and the anus all intermingled, more than the sum of their parts, the same bath of holy androgyny, holy hermaphroditism I had offered him.

I was so grateful, so grateful, and made to thank him, but as soon as I opened my eyes, he slapped me again. "Get up," he said, trying to sound stern, but there was a beautiful father's pride in his eyes, a warmth he could not disguise. "On your hands and knees, girls."

He waited until all the girls had arranged themselves in a row: Ash on the left, Cherry in the middle, Ebony on the right. Three perfect asses, three perfect, pink, gleaming, swollen pussies presented to us. My pussy pulsed despite the heaviness of the dildo inside of me; Torsten held the toy inside of me as he arranged me to sit on it, to squat on it, sitting close to the girls.

"Now. What was your favourite position again, my child?" he grinned.

Oh, God. "When a man--when a man takes a woman from behind," I stuttered, my heart beating faster as the girls laughed and glanced at me over their shoulders, rubbing their pussies, eager for Torsten to finally take them.

"How?" he said, kneeling beside Ash, stroking her hair as she nuzzled his cock, she stealing a taste by sucking on the head.

I licked my lips; my throat was parched. I wanted to taste him, too, wanted to taste all these pussies, these honeyed, fragrant pussies, the gorgeous pink flesh-stars of these asses. "When he squats over the girl. And fucks her in the ass," I added, deliberately vulgar, knowing how much this would turn the girls on. 

Without warning, Torsten took a hold of Ash and pushed his cock into her pussy, making her scream. She was so wet he slid halfway inside immediately, straddling her hips, pushing her head and shoulders into the ground. "What's the matter?" he asked, laughing cruelly as he began to fuck her with hard, violent thrusts straight away, pushing as deep as he could. "I have to slick myself up somehow," he purred.

"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God," Ash wailed, and it wasn't fake; I wondered how many men she had taken recently, whether she was still sore from others, knowing how much Torsten's size could hurt no matter how aroused one was. Yet she seemed not to be in too much pain as she was not stiff, no; she could barely hold on as Torsten began to pound into her, her pussy so wet it made sloshing noises, smacking noises as Torsten's balls slapped against it.

I moaned, struggled to stay on top of the dildo, had to rub my pussy to alleviate the pain of it, the intensity of it somehow. Despite the sight before me, I was still struggling against pain, to even stay conscious because of the way the dildo pressed on my spinal nerves and sent cold, white sparks of nausea through me. I was already so full, yet half of the dildo was still sticking out of my body so that my buttocks didn't even touch the ground. Ash's screams were the only thing I hung on to, the noises of Torsten's cock, his grunts as he fucked her into the ground; she shook so violently, the ample flesh of her thighs jiggling, her hand flying on her pussy with such intensity that she must have been orgasming already.

Ash's shrieks grew higher and higher, and the moment they started to die out, Torsten pulled back, her pussy making a sickening slurp as it remained open, her folds gleaming, beading from her fluids, Torsten admiring her pussy as if it were one of his exotic flowers.

"There," he said, spreading her pussy, spreading her ass, then shoving four fingers mercilessly inside of her pussy, fucking her until she sloshed and screamed again, the other girls visibly aroused, near orgasm themselves as they watched. "Did you all clean yourselves up, the way I told you to? Just water, no glycerine?"

All girls made noises of agreement.

"Good," Torsten said and unceremoniously, spat on Ash's ass and pushed two of his wetted fingers into it, to the knuckle. She wailed, yet I could see her pussy spasming a little; I wondered if she, too, could ejaculate. 

Torsten turned to me. "Now, _this_ is what my little whore here likes. Don't you, whore?"

I shivered at the cruelty of his smile, yet my mouth grew wet from the sight of his long, beautiful fingers sliding in and out of Ash's ass. "Yes," I said.

"Tell them," he said, tugging on Ash's ass so that it gaped a little, the sight making my pussy clench, clench again, and I had to rub myself harder. "Tell them what you like to do with pretty asses like this."

Oh, God. "Taste them," I whispered.

"I can't hear you."

"I like to taste them," I whimpered, now louder, leaning closer, so close I could feel Ash's body heat, Torsten's elbow brushing my arm as he kept on fucking Ash's ass with his fingers.

Torsten ignored me and spat on Ash's ass again, now pushing two more fingers inside of her from his other hand so that she stiffened from pain, Torsten ignoring that, too. He stretched her, tugged her open the way Helena always opened her women up, fucking Ash like a lesbian does. "What do you like to taste, whore?"

"Ass," I said. 

"Mm-hmm? What's inside an ass?" he said, spreading Ash so wide I could now see inside of her body, see the heaving, yawning redness of her flesh, deep inside her rectum. It was clean, yet I knew what he wanted me to say, the sick bastard, knew he wanted me to confess. Yet I delayed, perversely wanting to prolong this.

"Mucus," I murmured. "Anal slime."

He spat on my face. "Wrong."

I jerked so hard I nearly came there and then from the shock, not knowing whether to moan or cry. I wiped my face and stared into Ash's ass, enraptured by the exquisite skill of Torsten's hands, the way they slid into her and held her open for me, the black hair at the backs of his hands glittering wet. 

"Well?" he said, and his voice was creaking, his balls twitching; he could not wait to fuck her, and I rejoiced in my having frustrated him, denied him a little.

I looked him in the eye, the first ripples of orgasm spreading through my hips as I rocked myself on the dildo, beginning to truly fuck myself with it. I paused as long as I could, then threw his trigger word at him. "Shit, Daddy."

He moaned, all the girls moaned; in shock or arousal or both, I did not know. He held his fingers out to me, glistening, gleaming, rich from the insides of Ash's body. "Again."

"Let me taste her shit, Daddy."

He let out a huffing little laugh, his eyes slitted, and bared his teeth. He brought his fingertips to my lips, but at the last moment, sunk them into his own mouth, moaning in exaggerated delight. "Mmmm. _Delicious._ "

"You bastard!"

He just slapped me for that, laughed and straddled Ash, pushing his cock into her ass with just spit and pussy juice. Ash screamed, screamed and he couldn't get even halfway in no matter how he tried; yet he grabbed her hair and kept fucking her, rutting into her, clearly too desperate to stop now. 

"Master!" Ash shouted.

"Hmm? Am I hurting you?" he growled, shameless, merciless.

"Yes!"

"Then my little whore here can help. Come on."

And he knew how difficult it was for me to move with the dildo inside of me; it took me a while to drag myself so close to Ash I could lick her pussy, draw her fluids from it so that I could slick Torsten's shaft with them. I anointed him with them, with my own pussy juice, with my spit, his balls smearing my face completely as Ash's body yielded and allowed him deeper. 

He repeated this with each girl's ass, dipping from one hole into another, ignoring their pussies completely, so that I had to pleasure them instead, had to serve each pussy as I served him. My face ached, my tongue hurt, yet he kept on fucking, fulfilling his dream of the harem, wanting to prove his sexual prowess to four women at once. He must have been in pain in his back even more now, yet his lust triumphed over that, too: he keened as he spread each girl's buttocks, gazing upon their beautifully gaping holes, spitting into and fingering each ass between fucks. 

Yet whenever I tried to taste their asses, he stopped me, knowing I would be plunged into orgasm immediately; even in his sexual greed, he made sure to deny me the taste I so craved. Now, he knelt in the middle, fucking Cherry in the ass while pushing his hands into Ash's and Ebony's asses on either side, filling them, thus sodomising three women at once. He was majestic, sublime, triumphant; as I could not come, I satisfied myself not only by looking at the girls' pussies but him, the glory of his form, the man whose every cell was pure sexual power. His hips were as wide as Cherry's, his fingers unerring as they hooked and pressed and fucked the others; Ebony wailed, spraying the carpet with her ejaculate as Torsten fucked her palm-deep. All girls howled, rubbing their pussies violently, he devouring their pleasure, devouring their orgasms, his ego lapping up the satisfaction of making not one but three whores respond at once. 

But this whore needed to come, too. "Daddy, please."

He tugged his hands out of the girls' asses and sucked on his fingers like they were lollipops, smacking his lips, rolling his tongue. "What's the matter? Does the little whore want a taste?"

"Please."

He tilted his head. "Perhaps."

"Please, Daddy," I whined, deliberately using the child's register, rubbing my pussy; I was now sore, so sore and my clitoris was rubbed raw. "Please let me come."

"Come closer. There. Just there," he said, guiding me so that he could hold my cheek against Cherry's buttock, so that I could watch his gleaming cock sliding in and out of her. "My cock should be a little dirty by now, shouldn't it? Hmm? Three asses? Do you think you could take that taste?"

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, Daddy."

He pulled back almost completely, the muscles of Cherry's ass dragging across his cock; she moaned, surely sore herself by now. "Tell Cherry. Is it dirty?"

I looked at his cock, and could see white mucus, white foam, a little yellow; my pussy clenched so violently the waves of orgasm began to rise in me once more, now unstoppable. "Oh, God, yes. Yes." And to think when this had been the greatest taboo for us, the girls having no idea how truly filthy we were in private; this was merely the level of filth even the cleanliest of sodomites would have been familiar with. Anal foam, with just the tiniest tint of dirt: yet I craved it, craved the flavour of it, curious as to what it might taste like from another woman. I had not tasted this since Birgitte and I needed it, needed to worship Torsten as the god of sodomy, needed to worship the taste of a woman's flesh. 

"Please let me taste it, Daddy," I prayed, "please let me taste her shit, please, please."

He grabbed me by the hair and guided me backwards a little. "Lick my ass. Lick my ass so I can give you a nice big load, my child, come on, come."

Gladly, I did, and I had barely sunk my tongue into the delicious salt-metal of his ass when he came with the loudest of groans, having held back for so long. Oh, but I loved this, the way his asshole sucked on my tongue, squeezed it, kissed me back as he bucked his hips and came and came; he moaned and shivered for so long he must have truly filled Cherry up.

"There," he said, gesturing for me to move. "Daddy gave you a little cream with your caramel," he laughed as he pulled out, his hair falling onto his cheeks, and he was staggering, nearly falling over from exertion. "Cherry, push."

And oh, oh: this must have been why he had chosen Cherry, since she was the fairest, palest of them all: her asshole was such a perfect, dark rose red, a candy-red as it opened into a perfect O, Torsten's sperm still inside of it, juddering as her insides pulsed. She strained, groaned in shame as she pushed and pushed, and finally the sperm sluiced out, in a pearlescent, white-yellow stream over her pussy. I sank my mouth into her like a woman dying of thirst, lapping up the sperm, showing off to Torsten even as I satisfied my own perversion, even as I started to come undone. 

I gave him and Ebony and Ash the performance of a lifetime: I pulled strings of Torsten's sperm from Cherry's ass with my tongue, spat it back only so that I could slurp it out once more, fucked her with my tongue, moaning, howling into her in my orgasm. That I was now displaying this fetish, my own orgasm from it to others, other women in this manner made my release even stronger; I blazed, as if wings of fire had erupted from my back, shuddering and jerking upon the dildo, spraying my hand.

With a final, delicious, outrageous slurp I swallowed the last of his sperm into my body and collapsed onto the floor, moaning, the dildo sliding out of me. I lay there, panting, heaving with dry sobs, rivulets of sperm and spit and pussy juice streaking down my face.

Torsten but laughed, gathering the girls to himself, making a bed of them, resting his head on Cherry's belly, his hands on Ebony and Ash's pussies. "She is quite the performer. Do you think the madame would hire her?"

"Oh, absolutely," Ebony said, wiping her mouth, the girls curling up with Torsten in a satisfied heap, laughing. 

"There's one more thing," Torsten said, crooking his finger at me. "You forgot to suck me clean, my child," he laughed hoarsely. "You wanted it so much and look at you now, half asleep! Come. Come and taste your reward."

So I did, kissing, sucking the white and yellow foam off him, shuddering in glorious aftershocks as the tastes of three beautiful women's asses dissolved upon my tongue. A gift precious, delicious, sweet and salty and alkaline and dank, so perfect I sobbed in my joy. Thus, I mouthed him until he softened, massaging him, adoring him until I could slip the ring off him. "Thank you for everything, Daddy."

And the last thing I remember of that night was his laughter, his hand ruffling my hair; three pairs of eyes of absinthe, blueberries and whiskey all twinkling at me, and I, the sultan's favourite, lounging upon his bed of flesh.


	7. Chapter 7

We continued to play with the same girls for a while, indulging in orgies once or twice a week. These encounters were less violent than our first; lighter, yet utterly filthy--the girls soon picked up our fetishes and relished them. Whether this was because of Torsten's charm, his skill as a lover or the amounts of money he paid the girls, neither of us knew for sure; I suspected it was a combination of all three. The girls took especial delight on those occasions when Torsten but sprawled back on the bed and told them to satisfy themselves on his cock, riding him all night. He was sore afterwards, so sore he couldn't fuck me the next day, but his ego had never been as sated. He had not become an emperor yet, he said, but he admitted he was most content ruling over an empire of pussy instead.

I should have rolled my eyes at this, but it was hard to do so when I had his entire hand inside of my ass, his mouth on my spasming, dripping pussy. His grandeur was no delusion; I knew he could never fulfill his dreams of dictatorship anywhere except in the bedroom, and there, I served him gladly. I was not jealous at all, no: he made sure I never had to dominate the girls but would always be dominated myself. Thus, every time I licked a pussy my face was pushed into it forcibly; every time, I was spanked, fucked, subjugated in the way I so adored. I was the one who got penetrated the most, after all: every time, he offered my pussy and my ass to the girls, their hands, their toys as if I were the prostitute and they my customers. There were nights when he would simply lie down underneath my pussy as I sucked his cock on all fours and Ebony, Cherry and Ash all took turns sliding their little hands in and out of my ass, dipping their fingers into his mouth for a taste, fucking me until I sprayed his face.

The girls all laughed, cooed in delight every time Torsten arranged them into the now-familiar row for sodomy, dipping his cock into each and every ass in turn, now using my mouth to clean up his cock every time he pulled it out. I adored this ritual, fell into a trance of worship as he choked me with his cock, drowned me in the taste of ass, pussy juice, sperm and foam, his croons, susurrations of pleasure hypnotic in my ears. Ass to mouth, ass to mouth, ass to mouth, mouth, mouth--I was all mouth, all-devouring, all-serving, completely sated, perfected by this rite. For it was through this, this rhythm of filth and ecstasy that Torsten fulfilled my heterosexual, lesbian, masochistic and fetishistic desires all at once and I wept, wept in utter joy and surrender. 

But there were times when Daddy needed his little girl all to himself.

I will never forget the day he took me to an amusement park, he smart in his fedora and pinstriped suit, I dressed as a little girl. I wore no makeup, only a frilly dress, socks, Mary Janes and a bow in my hair, the perfect innocent--and I _felt_ innocent. For an entire day, we kept up the play--to us, the reality--of a loving father treating his daughter to a day out. He held my hand on the ghost train and through the maze of funhouse mirrors, clutched me tight as I screamed on the rollercoaster ride, adored me as he watched me riding a carousel horse. We gorged ourselves on ice cream until I was sick from the sugar, stealing bites from each other's cotton candy, laughing, giggling, he ruffling my hair.

By the time it was evening, I was so tired he had to carry me to the car, carefully tucking the plush rabbit I'd won underneath my arm. He'd rolled down the top so that when we arrived home, we could lie together in the back seat underneath the stars, crickets chirping all around us.

"Did Daddy's little girl have a good time?" he asked, holding my hand, his eyes tender.

"Yes," I said. "I love you, Daddy."

He looked at me wistfully, as if he was committing all of this to memory, a strange sadness dancing upon his face: for a moment, it looked as if he was going to cry. He squeezed my hand tight, so tight it hurt, but I let him; he kissed my head. "Daddy loves you too, my child. So much. Promise me you will never forget me."

"How could I?" I whispered, now deeply hurt. Did he mean the girls; that I would run off with one of them? Or some young man, perhaps? It was absurd; I was so utterly devoted to him that I had no idea why he would even think that. "There will never be another man for me, Daddy." I squeezed his hand back and kissed it. "Wherever you go, I will follow," I said, now choking back tears.

He gathered me into his arms and hugged me close, his suit scratching my cheek, filling my nose with his perfumes of musk and rose, the mother and the father in the same body now holding me tight. His voice was trembling a little. "It's just that I'm so happy tonight, Laura. So happy that I fear losing it," he whispered.

"Shh, Daddy," I said, still in the voice of the innocent, with the determination of a child. "Don't be silly; don't ruin it."

He laughed softly. "I won't; I won't." 

***

It was only two days later, when I was sorting out Torsten's paperwork--what a mess!--that I discovered why he had been so anxious. It was a complete accident; I was arranging his personal papers into a pile separate from his business ones, when an X-ray fell onto the floor from between the leaves of paper. He'd had one taken because of his back, that I knew, but as I picked it up, I noticed something else, something that made my blood run cold.

His lungs. 

There were cloud-like bursts on either side of his breastbone, where no organs should be, where only his ribs should have been showing through. And now I remembered his coughing, how I'd had to sleep in my own bedroom because he kept waking me up at night, a cough no syrup would suppress. And then there were those strange maladies of his that had weakened him for days, ones I had first mistaken for colds. Yet I _had_ been wondering why I hadn't caught any of these recurring colds, wondered why he wasn't truly feverish, so I had presumed the illness was psychosomatic, a result of his prison trauma.

But now all of his treats to us made sense: the prostitutes, the increased amounts of drugs to numb his pain; the way he had been too cheerful, forcibly cheerful, the man who knew his life was ending and who wanted to live every last moment to the fullest.

I don't know how I ended up on the floor, but as I came to, I couldn't even cry from my shock, from my horror. It was as if I had been looking at an X-ray of myself: my heart was so heavy, my chest so constricted it was as if a cancer had been spreading in my own lungs. But worse was the cancer of despair, of utter hollowness, of the finality of it all: death, death, death. 

His death would be my death also. I had made up my mind long ago: if anything, this revelation hardened my resolve to follow him to the grave. Death was not a difficult thing to understand, to come to terms with if one had the time and the means to prepare for it, to make peace with oneself. Yet the suddenness of this, the fact that he hadn't told me filled me with fury.

By the time he got home, I was fully drunk. I greeted him with a cry of rage, a glass of whiskey thrown against the wall, shattering beside his head. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" I shouted, waving the X-ray at him. "Why?!" I clutched at his shirt, shook him, screamed and screamed at him. "I had the right to know!"

"Oh, Laura," he said, having no excuse; he knew it. "I tried..."

"You tried to protect me. Is that it? I told you I would follow you anywhere!" I yelled at him. "Don't you dare try and stop me. Don't you _fucking_ dare." 

"I was going to tell you," he said, slouching forwards on the sofa, his hands between his knees. He didn't look at me, just stared at the carpet. "It's not exactly an easy thing to talk about," he spat. 

"You could've told me earlier so I would have had more time to prepare."

"To prepare for _what?_ How? Laura, even _I_ don't know what to do." There were tears in his eyes, now; his hands shook as he lit a cigarette. "I don't know what to do, and I didn't want you to see me weak and indecisive." He buried his face in his hands. 

For a moment, I thought of plucking the cigarette from his hand, thought of telling him those things were killing him, but he knew that already. Instead, I picked up the packet and lit one myself, because what did it matter, now? I'd never heard of anyone who had survived lung cancer. There was no cure.

I poured him a whiskey, yet he said nothing as he accepted the glass. Was this another one of those hateful times where I had to assume control, to guide our destiny? It damn well felt like it. Dead man or no, I simply couldn't let him spiral out of control like this. "We must draw up a plan."

He laughed, a dry, hacking laugh, and I fancied I could smell death on his breath. "A plan?"

"Yes, a plan. How many months did they give you?"

"Laura!" finally, he looked up at me, outraged. 

"I mean it," I said, pouring myself another drink and downing it in one gulp. "We are _not_ going to show up at Hell's door without a good résumé." 

"You're serious," he said, nodding, and I couldn't tell if his smile was that of bitterness or awe.

"I've never been more serious. How long have we got?"

"Six months, they said," he mumbled. "Although it's impossible to predict. I might--" he sighed. "They said I might _deteriorate_ rapidly."

I nodded. "And you've already elected to commit suicide."

"My God!" Torsten leaned back and slid into a slouch on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. "You're worse than I am."

"It's why you love me," I said, pouring myself yet another whiskey, swirling it in my glass. "But I mean it. When we go, we'll go together. I am not going to be spending a _day_ without you in this world, do you hear me?"

"Yes," he said, lost in thought. "And I don't--" he swallowed. "I don't want to become decrepit, waste away in a hospital bed." He turned towards me once more. "But I want to die in Sweden. Don't you?"

"Yes," I said, and now I was perfectly calm, having slid into my calculating, hardened businesswoman's mindset once more. This, I could work with; as long as I could apply logic to it all, I knew where I was going. And I was _not_ going to let panic or depression chain me down. No, no, not now; we were about to enter the most important time of our lives. "We could get away with anything, now," I said. "Even murder."

"I thought of that, too. There's nothing more dangerous than a man who knows he's going to die. Shame I can't think of anyone I'd want to murder right now," he quipped, intending it as a joke.

"I can," I said, quiet, serious. "Segert."

Torsten sat closer to me and leaned his head against my shoulder, such a strange composition: the tall, grown man leaning upon the teenaged girl, drawing strength from her. "The worst thing is that I know you mean it. And that you would be even more ruthless about it than I was about Birgitte."

"You never hated her, nor did I," I murmured. "She was just a casualty."

"We have to set a date for this murder of yours, then," he said breezily. "But before that," he said and laid his hand on my thigh, "fucking. We must draw up a list of everything we haven't tried yet. If I am to go, I am going to go well-fucked, so that even de Sade will faint away when he sees my ass."

"The worst thing is that I know you mean it," I laughed dryly. "If we leave at the end of May, we'll be in Forssa by my birthday. Will that do for you?"

He just stared at the window. "The day we were supposed to inherit everything," he said quietly. "We were supposed to rule the world." And now there was anger in his voice. All these years, he had nursed these megalomaniacal fantasies and I had never known how serious he had been about them. That he'd align himself with the various fascist governments of Europe and raise himself to glory--with me as his strength, as his guide. Yet it would never work, never, ever; I had always been the more rational one of us and he the delusional Romantic. It was time to return him to the real world.

"We can still rule our own fate. Few people are ever offered a chance to decide how and when they will leave. Torsten, I--" I set down my glass, stumped my cigarette and curled up against him. "I want us to go down in flames, Daddy," I said, "a blaze of glory. Promise me that."

He turned to me so that he could kiss me, chaste, a kiss ritualistic, a pact sealed. "I will make sure of it." There was a new, sky-bright glow in his eyes, the glow of the fanatic, the madman given free rein. I had only had to nudge him a little to open this door in him, to show him the possibilities, to finally let the beauty of the Barring madness reach its natural conclusion. And now that the door had been flung open wide, now that he felt the wind of absolute freedom upon his face, just as I did, he seemed to grow stronger, darker, bolder than he had ever been.

He curled his hand around my throat and squeezed. "We shall burn bright as we fall," he recited against my lips, "so bright our death will shame the stars."

***

The following evening, we orchestrated a ritual to mark the beginning of the rest of our lives. Torsten had bought an almost life-sized, ithyphallic bronze statue of a sitting Pan from the erotic auction and now we installed it in the cellar, the room he used for all his occult practices. We stood naked in the room lit only by red candles, concentrating, focusing our wills on our work for the following months, our Great Work as Crowley would have called it. Our life's work, one of unbridled hedonism, of sin, of evil: to this, we now dedicated ourselves once more, swearing to live out our philosophy with utmost vigour.

Torsten pissed a ring around us and the statue, marking the concrete floor; I followed him by tracing a pentagram within it with my menstrual blood. We staggered from wine, drugs, bellowed out loud drinking songs as we revelled in the circle; we had written out a carefully scheduled plan of all the things we were going to do and now signed it in our blood. We swore allegiance to the Devil, to the ravishing, devouring life force of the libido once more, kissing Pan's lust-curled lips.

Torsten lit incense, lit more candles as we began to fuck the statue to imbue it with power.

The enormous bronze cock hurt me, yet I forced myself to orgasm upon it, slickening it with my pussy juice and blood. I charged it with the power of my lust, giving to it of my cunt, and Torsten followed suit: snorting like an animal, mewling, he licked and sucked the giant phallus, worshipping it with his whore's mouth. I took him by the hair and forced him to choke on it, and he loved that, loved my fingers in his ass as I prepared him, he making disgusting, crude noises. Passionately, he embraced the statue and rode it, too, howling as the cock sunk into his ass; I was not sure if he had hurt himself, but just as I had done, he continued until orgasm, until he had sacrificed himself unto the statue entire.

He shook as he fell off the statue, his stomach spattered with sperm, and I caught him in my arms; for long moments we lay there, I sucking his cock, he licking my pussy until we were both sweaty, dirty, spent. 

"To our new life," he said and toasted me with opium wine, once more drawing blood from his arm and squeezing a few drops into the goblet; I scooped blood from my pussy and stirred it into the mixture. Deeply, we drank, drank until we were sick, drank and fucked until we passed out upon the floor, Pan leering at us in approval.

***

From that day on, we were truly unhinged. Before, we had restrained ourselves from time to time simply for medical reasons, but why should we care about illness or injury now, if we were going to die soon anyway? We could live as wildly, take drugs as wildly, fuck as wildly as we pleased. Besides, I had stolen some of Segert's miracle drugs, knowing I might need them, had been saving them up in case I developed an inflammation from excessive fucking or should either of us catch a venereal disease. They could easily last the two of us for the next two months; now, we could fuck whomever we wanted and however we wanted. Even the great beast Syphilis wouldn't have time to truly ravage us in such a short time period--had any libertine in the history of the world ever been given such complete licence, I wondered?

"They do call Death the great liberator," Torsten murmured as we lay together in the bathtub after a particularly scatological bout of sex.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw a new, cold brightness, a new illumination in my eyes, my gaze as sharp as Lucrezia's daggers, as blue as her poisons. We would build a monument to ourselves from the mountain of bodies we had left behind, the bodies we had fucked, crown this mausoleum with the bodies of those we had slain. And I wanted that mountain to be high, a shining beacon of our sin; I wanted to experience everything before we reached the final summit of murder, of suicide.

"Have you booked the tickets yet?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "The plane tickets, too. We are leaving for Sweden through New York, the last week of May." 

"New York?"

"Yes. Japan and Russia are off limits. I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"That's only reasonable," I said.

"I'm surprised you didn't mention Acheron before, actually. We have a full day in New York before we leave, you know. We could sort him out if you like."

I turned around in his arms and kissed him; the way he spoke of murder so casually aroused me, made my pussy tighten in pleasure. "If we have time. I barely remember him, you see. It's odd. You did such a good job of erasing him. And I thought he'd be in jail by now."

"Maybe he is. I'm not sure. I'd just hate to leave him unpunished."

"You take Acheron, then. Segert is mine."

"I know," he leered, his cock stirring between my legs. "And I can't wait to see you in action, little princess."

I smiled and rested my forehead against his. "But fucking first, just like you said. No limits, now. I want to share everything with others."

"Even the piss?" he murmured, searching my eyes. "And what we just did?"

"Everything, Daddy."

"You know my answer to that," he said, cupping my breasts. "As long as I can watch."

"Of course. And I want you to join in. Has another man ever pissed in your mouth, Daddy?"

He burst into laughter. "Little pervert. And the answer is 'no.'"

"It's about time you tried, then."

"Very well, but you first. I think I know just the place."

***

That place was a public toilet. I shivered as I knelt on the concrete floor, blindfolded, with my arms tied behind my back, my dress knotted crudely at the front so that my breasts and my pussy were exposed. I was terrified, frightened out of my wits, yet I had asked for this myself, hadn't I? But now I had second thoughts, still hung over and nauseous from our drinking last night, trembling in withdrawal, Torsten not having allowed me to soften this experience in any way whatsoever. He stood beside me, holding me on a dog's leash, leaning back against the wall, smoking. He had told me it was a toilet popular with perverts, with homosexuals looking for a quick suck, and that added to my terror: I had seen enough woman-hating homosexuals to fear they might just beat me up, and Torsten most certainly wasn't built like a bodyguard. Yet, I had acquiesced to this even as I had understood the danger of it: it was exactly because there was still some part of me that feared something that I needed to do this. I did not want to feel fear, wanted to conquer fear, whether it was that of beatings or rape or any other form of abuse. This was a test I had set for myself, and I was going to pass, no matter what. 

The toilet, of course, stank to high heaven; the sharp smell of male piss stung my nostrils like needles, the smell of shit making my nausea even worse. The concrete had ruined my stockings and my knees hurt; we had been waiting for someone to enter for a long while now. Torsten had given me Coca-Cola to drink so that my bladder was full, so full that I was hurting, the way the cola enhanced my circulation making my pussy ache, too.

"Please, Daddy."

"Please, what?" He laughed and shifted; even when I couldn't see him, I could feel he was slinking his hips. 

"I need to piss."

"Only when I allow it."

It was then that we finally heard someone approaching. "Stay still and open your mouth," Torsten said, stumping his cigarette. "And don't speak unless I tell you to."

Going by the gasp I now heard, the man who had just entered the toilet was young. His feet stopped, scraped the floor a little, as if he was going to turn away.

"There's a perfectly good urinal here, sir," Torsten drawled. "Go on. Free of charge."

The man's feet shifted again; he was still hesitating. "I just came here to piss," he blurted.

"Then piss in her mouth, right here. She likes it, you see," Torsten purred, and I shivered as he lowered my dress at the shoulders to lift out my breasts. "If you give her a really big mouthful, who knows, she might even give you a little suck."

My entire body was covered in gooseflesh as Torsten let go of me to step aside a little, so as not to seem so threatening to the young man. I could hear arousal in Torsten's voice, hear his breathing growing heavier and not just from his illness; I wondered if he was erect.

"What do I--" the young man started.

"You can put your cock in her mouth, if you like," Torsten said casually. "Or if you're feeling adventurous, you can keep it outside and test your aim." I could hear the leer in his voice. "She won't mind getting a bit wet. Now will you, my dear?"

I just made a noise, a noise I hoped sounded like agreement, not being able to form words with my mouth held open thus. I feared I would faint this very moment, no longer from terror but from sheer arousal.

The man came closer, fumbling with his fly; I could feel his body heat, his bare flesh now so close to my mouth, could smell the sweat and the musk of his pubic hair. Yet he hesitated, his hands hovering around my head, not sure if he was allowed to touch.

"Go on," Torsten purred.

I had held my mouth open for so long I was drooling all over myself, now; I could feel my spit falling onto my breasts. But there, there it was: a half-hard cock, the skin of it so soft, tucked into my mouth. No one had ever put a soft cock into my mouth like this; only Torsten had, whenever he had wanted to perform this same act. For a moment, the young man found it difficult to piss, still so shocked from this erotic dream he had walked into. Meanwhile, I savoured the feel of his cock, the youthful smoothness of his skin, the firmness of it, such a contrast to Torsten's looser skin, his more prominent veins. I gave this cock a little suck, another, relishing its salt, and he moaned. But I knew how hard it was for a man to piss while erect, so I stopped before Torsten could chastise me.

And it was the young man who now cried out as the first spurt of his piss flowed into my mouth; I answered his disbelieving noise with a moan of pleasure, sucking down his piss with practiced skill, and I had never felt as whorish. This, this was my specialty, this the fetish Torsten had made me the queen of, and as I swayed a little, my pussy was so wet I dragged slickly against the concrete.

And I was serving Torsten even now, was I not? Submitting my body to his will, acting as his sexual instrument, become his perfect harlot, his masterpiece of whoredom's art.

I was saddened when our guest pulled out. I swallowed, yet a little piss dribbled out of my mouth onto my breasts; I shivered, wondering if I could orgasm without touching myself, so aroused I was, now. The man didn't even say 'thank you,' just buttoned up and ran, ran as fast as his feet could carry him, Torsten's laughter echoing at his heels.

"What a marvellous performance, my dear," Torsten purred, leaning in to kiss my mouth, licking the piss from the walls of my cheeks, lapping it up from my palate. "Such a good little slut, such a good little slut," he sighed, slapping my pussy with his open hand, tapping it, tapping it until I was squirming, howling into his mouth.

"Can I piss now, Daddy?" I asked.

"Not yet. After the next man, perhaps."

I groaned, whined at him, yet he only had to slap my face to render me quiet, to gift me with the balm of pain to soothe my chaos. His hand left a wet stripe on my cheek, and now my pussy and my bladder were burning. I prayed to all the devils of Hell that another man would arrive, soon.

My prayers were answered almost immediately. It was another man, a heavier one this time; he laughed as he saw us and strolled right over.

"Open your mouth, darling," Torsten said. "We have a new customer."

"How much?" the man asked, middle-aged by the sounds of it, his voice rough from tobacco and alcohol, his accent Irish, working-class.

"Piss is her reward," Torsten said, and I could tell from his voice he was attracted to the man. He made some gesture at the man, I felt, something men would make at each other when they were seeking sex. "Unless you came here for more than that," he said.

The Irishman chuckled, a chuckle full of phlegm; he disgusted me. I could never understand Torsten's taste for the uncouth, rough types, but I had no choice: I had to serve this man as well. He did not hesitate for a moment, shoving his fat cock into my mouth, stuffing me with it, even pushing at me with his hips so that I was choking on his belly. I screamed onto his cock, but he held me still; Torsten did not make a move to stop him. And since my mouth was now so completely full, his piss started to burst out of me, dribbling past my lips and over my chin, drenching the front of my dress completely. I sobbed in true terror, but the man's only answer to that was to pull his cock out and shake it dry in my face, so that my entire face was sprayed with his stinking, bitter, alcoholic piss.

I let my head fall; my chest was heaving from lack of air, and as I panted there, I expected Torsten to slap me again, to punish me. Yet I heard a thud next to me and realised he had fallen to his knees and was now sucking the Irishman's cock, going by the sounds of it; the shameless _bastard._ Torsten mewled, a greedy fairy's noise, screamed in delight as he too was choked, stuffed full of the stinking, piss-wet cock. The man came so fast I didn't know if Torsten had had time to orgasm at all; this man, too, left swiftly, Torsten dusting his knees as he got up.

"Daddy, now, can I--"

He grabbed me by the jaw and prised my mouth open, spitting the other man's sperm into my mouth, spitting once, twice, three times, then closed my mouth with his hand. "One more man. Now, swallow."

Even his sperm tasted disgusting, much soapier, much more alkaline than Torsten's. But since it was Torsten who offered it to me, it underwent a transubstantation in my mind, turned into my beloved Father's sperm as well. This man could not hurt me; no man could hurt me because now all the men in the world were my Daddy to me, all violations his acts of love towards me. I told Torsten this as I licked my lips, sobbed this against his face, and he kissed me more tenderly, laughing into my mouth.

"That's right. You have learned so well," he said wistfully, stroking my jaw, my neck. "Remember when I still had to remind you of this? But now you know the entire world is your Daddy," he said in a cooing, paternal voice, stroking my hair. "And here comes another Daddy. Open your mouth."

This man was shocked, too; he stilled, shifted on his feet. Yet he never said a word: Torsten must've been gesticulating to him, and he held my head out to the man in offering. Perhaps the man didn't speak English, perhaps he was one of the many Chinese migrant workers here, I didn't know; but soon, his cock was in my mouth, too. His piss was the most voluminous of all, and even if he didn't deliberately choke me, I coughed up more of his piss than I could swallow, my belly now so full I was struggling not to be sick. He held his cock in my mouth for so long I realised I was weeping, weeping from my fatigue and from how overwhelmed I was by it all, and finally, he took pity upon me and pulled out. He said nothing as he walked out, leaving me coughing, retching, vomiting half of his piss out.

"There, there," Torsten crooned, rubbing my belly, holding me from behind, staining his own suit. "Now, you can piss." He began to slap my pussy again, violently, smacking it so hard I swayed on my knees. 

"Daddy!" I shrieked.

He slapped me even more violently, so loudly his slaps echoed in the room. "Come on. Piss."

But I had already dribbled out a little piss from the force of my retching; now I truly let go, sobbing in shame and disgust as I pissed into his slapping hand, down my thighs, Torsten spraying my piss all over me, himself. On and on I pissed, now creating a puddle around myself, completely ruining my skirt and my stockings, nothing but a piss-soaked whore. No, no, even lower than a whore, since I had not been paid a penny: this was my reward, this complete destruction of the pretty, innocent young girl, the utter submersion of myself into the lowest level of sexual slavery. The slavery I had yearned for myself, brought on by my own lust, Torsten my pimp, giving me what I had always wanted. I could not stop sobbing now, hysterical, bent double as I breathed in the ammonia and the sugar of my piss.

Finally, Torsten pulled off my blindfold, wiped his hands on it and lit a cigarette. "Good girl."

"Can we go home now?" I asked, the child who was wet and cold, the child who hurt everywhere, the child who needed a long, warm bath.

"In a moment."

He took his cock out and I _knew_ it, had known he was going to do this: he pissed all over my face, my chest, my back as he walked around me, completely soaking me from the back and the front, not even aiming for my mouth. Drops of his piss flew into my eyes, and through their sting I could see his eyes were wide, hysterically wide, mad, his crooked grin gleaming in the shadows: the alpha beast marking his territory, drowning other males' scents with his own.

"Almost done." He threw his cigarette into the puddle we were now both standing in, then yanked my bound arms and pushed my face into the concrete, rubbing it in the piss, the vomit, the cigarette stumps. He put his foot on my neck, grinding my face into the mess. "Now, drink it."

"Daddy--"

"Drink it," he said, outraged that I had even thought of protesting. "We're not going home until you do."

I howled, howled as I began to lap up the mess, retching, vomiting some of it back, but he held me down until I had swallowed enough of it for his liking. He laughed, a dry, high, broken laughter that echoed off the tiles, then splashed onto his knees behind me and pushed his cock into my pussy. And there, he fucked me, grinding my face into the floor and the piss so violently my cheek was scratched raw, fucked me until I was howling, fucked me until my howls were drowned by my utter subjugation. Just as he had used me as his aphrodisiac before, he now used my pussy to bring himself to completion and I responded like never before, coming almost as soon as he entered me. My pussy burned from him, clutching around him and I sobbed my orgasm into the piss and the shit and the stench, my howls sluicing down the drain. And at that moment, as my entire body burned underneath his hands, burned around his cock, I was schizophrenically certain no other woman had ever been as completely taken, as completely torn apart, butchered as I now was by him.

"You have killed me," I mumbled as he untied me, as he undressed me, as he dragged me to the nearby shower cubicle to wash. "You have killed me and you have eaten me and I am you--"

"Yes, you are, my child," he murmured into my mouth underneath the shower. "Yes, you are."

And in my madness, I fancied that I had merged into his body, that it was his belly all this piss was now sloshing in, that it was now his pussy that was being washed by his own hands, only one person standing underneath the shower. The heat of the water made me swirl into him, just as he swirled into me, both of us now so deeply dissolved by the fluids of sin we became mixed together like two different colours of paint, transforming into an entirely new hue. There was no Torsten, there was no Laura Erika, but only the one man-woman, only the Barring hermaphrodite, bearing breasts and a cock just like those old woodcuts of devils I had seen in his books.

I passed out in the shower, passed out from my fatigue and shock and only woke up in our bed, he around me, fresh and warm. I listened to his heartbeat as he slept, to the rattling in his lungs, to the fugue of death in them, speeding us towards our end. And I felt an elation at this, the same lurching euphoria I had felt on the rollercoaster ride as I plunged towards my death with him, like a pair of gyrfalcons plummeting down from the heavens towards the molten core of Hell.

He awoke a little, smirked at me, then squeezed me into a little ball in his arms so that I was dwarfed by his height, his beauty, swallowed up in the warmth of his flesh. And there I slept once more: in the dark, warm amniotic sweetness of his sin, the womb of wickedness we had both sprung from, dreaming of the whispering of birches.


	8. Chapter 8

There were days when I woke up filled with doubt, weeping before I even opened my eyes. The sun shone into the bedroom, painting Torsten's body with the hues of life and warmth; he lay naked beside me on his belly, having cast off the sheets in his sleep. He had bent his left knee so that his ass lay exposed, his genitals soft and tender between his legs. I adored that pink line of his perineum, the smoothness of his ass, so much like a boy's the way he'd shaved it, the way the flesh of his buttocks was still firm even when he was nearing fifty. It seemed like such a waste to lose all this beauty so soon, when he could have still enraptured so many women and men, could still have proven to the world that there was indeed such a thing as the perfect lover. 

_And what about me?_ I thought. Was this all I got, after having supported him so? It was I who had pulled him out of his debts and his aimless drifting, I who had worked my fingers to the bone to resurrect the Barring empire so that we might enjoy its fruits. It was I who had established our high standard of living, I who had paid for the servants, the sportscar, the champagne in the cellar. Where was my reward? I deserved more than the mere two and a half years we had been lovers, wanted more couplings, more ecstasies, wanted to keep on drinking from this well of beauty for as long as I could. I squeezed my hands into fists and raged against the injustice of it, at the mindless waste of it, cursing Nature.

I crawled up to Torsten and kissed the curve of his buttocks, rested my head upon their softness, wrapping my arms around the beauty of his hips. "I don't want you to die," I whispered when he stirred. "I just want to keep on making love to you forever." I swallowed, my tears now running freely down my face. "It's not fair."

He kept his eyes closed and sighed into the pillow. "I know," he croaked, his voice thick from sleep, and immediately, he was seized by a coughing fit. "I'm sorry," he groaned between coughs as he had to pull away from me for a moment to have a drink of water. When he had caught his breath, he pulled me to rest beside him, laid my head over his chest and petted my hair. "If I had a spell to make us both live forever, I would have cast it by now."

I said nothing; the rasping breath in his lungs poisoned my ear and I wept again in silence, only lying there until my tears had formed a pool on his chest. And never did he tell me not to cry, knowing how futile it was, since if there was something worth crying about, it was this. 

"We mustn't waste time," he said, coughing again. 

I knew this very well and wanted to snap at him: I had been sick for four days after our adventure at the public toilet, down with a stomach bug from the filth I had swallowed. He had just insisted that urine was sterile and that it must've been something else that had made me ill, had even had the bright idea of helping me vomit by forcing me to gag on his cock. For the first day, he had been but watching in perverse fascination as I had shat and vomited my guts out, but on the second he had softened and started to tend to me, feeding me with Alka-Seltzer, salt and soup. Yet even then I had felt that he was impatient, as if I hadn't been impatient myself, guilty for my body having betrayed us when we had so little time left to enjoy the rest of our lives.

I felt a little better today physically, but mentally, I was still feeling awful. "Let's just spend today at home together, Daddy. Please."

He kissed my hair. "As a matter of fact, I think I could use a little rest myself," he murmured. "Start easy, then work our way up to the usual debaucheries," he said cheerfully, then slapped me on the ass. "Off to the shower with you."

We bathed together; the hot water and his heartfelt, tender embraces helped my mood. "I've never seen you with your natural hair, you know," I said as I worked shampoo into his hair. "Don't use the pomade today. I just want to see what it looks like when it's not all slicked back."

"It looks ridiculous," he grumbled. "But all right. As long as I don't have to leave the house."

It took several washes to get his hair completely clean; I had sometimes felt a little embarrassed for the amount of hair cream he used when other men allowed a little more wave to show through these days. The fiercely slicked-back look made him seem old-fashioned, like he was still stuck in the Twenties, and I was sure the way he combed it flat with such violence was what had made his hairline recede so fast in the first place.

"I look like a tramp!" he exclaimed when his hair had finally dried and I was brushing it out in front of the dresser mirror. "Like some drunk bohemian poet who can't take care of himself."

I kissed his cheek. "I think you look like a Romantic hero, as a matter of fact. It suits you." Because now his hair fell across his cheeks to brush his jaw, the natural waviness of it even making it look more voluminous than usual. "And you look ten years younger," I said. "You look much balder when it's all glued down against your scalp, you know," I said and ruffled it a little, despite his protests.

"You little bitch!" he grabbed me, tickled me and pulled me to sit in his lap, trapping me between the dresser and himself, undoing my dressing gown. "And what shall we do with yours? Put bows in it?" He lifted bunches of my hair on top of my head. "Or give you a Rococo pouf?"

"There's only one poof here and I'm looking at him," I giggled and screamed as he attacked my breasts with his mouth. "Not here, Daddy! In bed."

He carried me to the bed, dropped me onto it unceremoniously and took me while we were both still in our dressing gowns; we had to shower again right after, but I didn't mind. It was a day of pure pleasure, easiness, laziness; he took well to the idea of it. I tended to him like a wife would have, cooked us good food, made sure we only took minimal amounts of alcohol and drugs to keep withdrawal symptoms at bay, allowing our bodies to rest and recuperate. 

We never dressed or bothered with self-grooming, spending the day like savages on our own little desert island, falling into a relaxed rhythm of pleasure and rest, one following the other like waves. I even caught Torsten admiring his hair in mirrors from time to time, admiring his naked body as he walked past. When we made love, it was slow, sweet, neither of us in a rush towards orgasm: we spent more time caressing each other, keeping up a steady heat, a steady flow of pleasure instead of plunging headlong towards the depths of depravity the way we so often did. 

To an ordinary couple, a night of perversity would have been an exception, an adventure; to us, this was a holiday, a break from our usual excesses, a day upon which we rediscovered the true depths of our tenderness towards each other. I ran my hands all across his body to commit the feel of his skin to memory, the softness here, the coarseness there; he held me, crushed me so tight as he took me it was as if he wanted to weld himself to me, merge us so completely we would become but one human being. In awe, I watched the way his head fell back, the way his lashes trembled, the way his pulse fluttered upon his neck as I pleasured his ass with my mouth; he made me go on all fours and licked me and fingered me, refusing to fuck me until strings of my sweetness had touched the bed.

After, he groaned deep from his chest and pulled me to lie spooned in his arms, his cock still nestled inside of me. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to be sentimental at you," he sighed into my shoulder.

I rubbed sweaty hair from my face against the pillow and smiled. "Go on."

"Well. I just meant to say that Laura Erika Barring, you are the _perfect fuck._ "

I burst into laughter at his bluntness, and he just hugged me tighter against himself, his cock stirring a little in my pussy even now. He chuckled in my ear and kissed it. "It's true. I've never met a woman who enjoyed sex so much, for a start."

I turned my head a little to kiss his nose. "Runs in the family."

He gave my cheek a little mock-tap. "Don't you dare interrupt me when I'm being sentimental, girl. I mean it. It's the way you _respond,_ " he groaned in delight, rocking his hips into the softness of my ass. "The way you answer each and every caress, the way you listen to me and pick up my cues, the way you just slide into such complete submission and service. You play off me like a good actress does, the way she reads other players and reacts accordingly, inspiring them in turn. I've never had that," he said, with wonder in his voice, and this made my ego swell: his women would have been innumerable. 

But soon, my pride gave way to pity--I felt a little stab in my heart as I realised how lonely he must have felt for so much of his life. I wondered whether this, in fact, had been the reason for his donjuanism: that he had been looking for a lover who shared his own sexual voracity, his own sexual curiosity and creativity, and had never found his match.

"So many women are just so passive," he continued, confirming my theory. "They think all they have to do is to just lie there, and it's not just the good girls, either. Sometimes I've barely been able to keep it up because once I've seduced them, they've just turned lifeless, like I was fucking a corpse. But never you, Laura... never you." He reached for my front and played at the slit of my pussy, sighing against my neck. "I can feel how much you want it, right here. You always answer me, deep down in the body, so I know it's genuine. Do you know how awful it is to push into a cold, hard pussy, with just glycerine to ease the way, knowing she isn't enjoying it? I've never had that with you, no matter how rough I've been with you," he murmured, and now his voice was trembling from love. "This little pussy's always so wet, as soon as I kiss you, so ready for me. And so soft, so swollen," he purred, making my flesh flutter around him, "so fucking _delicious_ around my cock."

I moaned and leaned back, kissing him on the mouth, squeezing his cock with my pussy until he was moaning, too. "It's because _you're_ such a good lover. I thought of that this morning, you know. How you're born for it," I gasped as he framed my clitoris with his fingers. "God, you just _know_ how to touch me, what to say, and you drive me insane, I--"

"Mmm-hmm," he murmured, licking my wetness off his fingers before returning them to my clitoris. "That must run in the family, too. You frightened me a little at first, you know. You weren't just a precocious child, but _sexually_ precocious, the perfect little coquette before you even knew it. It was as if you carried that knowledge within your body even when you were still a virgin, the way it seemed like you knew how to fuck even before you'd tried it, how it ran in your blood. The way you moved your body even when you were little, like you were always seeking pleasure from everything, sniffing my cologne, rubbing up against me, twinkling your little baby blues at me."

"That's because you were there," I said and turned around, straddling him, sitting on his cock, rocking my hips like a belly-dancer to massage him with my pussy, coaxing him into hardening inside of me. "I could never get enough of you," I kissed against his mouth. I laced my fingers with his, wanting to get as much of him inside of me as possible, summoning the last dregs of potency from his body. "I just want to keep on fucking you forever," I groaned, punctuating my words by riding movements, taking him properly, now, mad from greed. 

"Then fuck me," he growled and reached for my ass, pushing two fingers inside of it to make me howl, jacking his hips up even if he must have been in pain by now. "Fuck me, little girl, fuck Daddy with your pussy." And in his words I heard how he wanted to prove himself, now more than ever, forever the Daddy, forever the master lover, defying time and age and death itself with his virility. People come and go, but fuck never dies, he had told me; desire itself never dies. I remembered a book he'd shown me, with pictures of herms and lingams, phallic pillars that had signified time, power, magic, standing firm unto eternity. And like an ancient priestess I now worshipped his phallus as the source of all life; like the yoni I encased his power and contained it within my flesh, riding him until we held sway over death itself, until we were both completely, utterly exhausted.

Even when we were too tired to move our limbs, we kept mouthing each other, licking each other, touching each other as much as possible, skin blending into skin, warmth blending into warmth. We were trembling by the time the sun set, our jaws aching, our limbs hurting so much we could no longer move. Then, we but lay there together and watched as the candles started to flicker out, painting long shadows upon the walls. 

"Have you had a good time?" he asked me and hugged me, sated, content.

"Yes, Daddy," I said, kissing his hand.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm going to take you out tomorrow night."

***

I thought he would take me to a brothel, but this place was going to be far more dangerous: it was a society party, hosted by other Scandinavians.

"Are you mad?" I asked him when he showed me the invitation. "We'll never get away with it."

"Read the rest. It's a costume party. We'll all be wearing masks, so it'll be quite safe."

"But we haven't got any costumes! Oh, I wish you'd told me in advance." I panicked, now; I didn't have anything to wear for a society party, let alone a costume one. And I couldn't get a well-cut dress made in just a day, no matter how much money I had. 

"I got you one. I took the liberty of taking one of your trouser suits to Ricky's, and had a similar one made, with some adjustments."

Ricky's. The specialist tailor who made Torsten's dresses, oh--I knew where this was leading. The bastard. He wasn't as interested in the party itself, I was sure; only in a new chance to play with danger, to play another erotic game. "Do I want to know?"

But of course I did. When he presented me with the outfit, I fumed at him because it was a work of genius, and I told him so--and also how much I hated him for it. 

He, of course, just slinked his hips and blew a series of smoke rings into the air. "Try it on."

The costume was very simple, as close-fitting as that of a sailor. The jacket and the slacks were skin-tight, a pure white, indecent, leaving nothing to the imagination. But the genius of the costume lay in the slit crotch of the trousers, consisting of two overlapping flaps--and what went inside of it. For Torsten had had the idea of dressing me like an arctic fox: in a hat box upon the bed lay a mask made of real fox fur and underneath it, a great, fluffy white fox tail. The tail itself was attached to a rubber contraption I could only presume was meant to be inserted into the body: it was some strange hybrid of an anal plug and those balls Chinese women used to tighten their vaginas. It consisted of two heavy spheres--metal, I presumed--one on top of another, each the size of a golf ball, encased in a firm sheath of rubber. The spheres were loose enough to jiggle inside of the plug, to vibrate against one another; my pussy tightened as I imagined what they would feel like inside the body as one moved.

Torsten took the plug from my hand and waved the tail playfully. "Care to give it a try?"

"I hate you," I groaned as he started to ease the plug inside of me, even if my pussy was wet as soon as he opened the flap and reached for my ass. I leaned against the bed and moaned as he worked the beads inside of me with only the tiniest stroke of glycerine, telling me that any more would make the toy slip out. And oh, the damn fabric of the trousers was so tight it rode up between the lips of my pussy, chafing me, torturing me. By the time the entire plug had slid into place, I had soaked the entire crotch; everyone would be able to tell how aroused I was.

"You total and utter bastard," I groaned into my crossed arms.

He just smacked my ass. "Get up. Try and walk around with it."

But moving hurt; this toy wasn't as enormous as his steel plug, but it was still not exactly easy to walk while wearing it. And the vibrations, oh, God, the vibrations: I nearly fainted from the way the heavy metal beads rang against each other, sending tremors through my rectum, vagina and womb. My entire pelvis was ringing, humming, my each step turning me into an instrument, my very body making music for his pleasure. I wanted to panic, wanted to pull the plug out, that's how intense the sensation was at first, reminiscent of the first few times Torsten had used toys in my ass. Even if the plug was by no means as large as his hand, the constant stretch, the constant movement of the beads against my spinal nerves sent me into a nervous overload. How on earth was I going to wear this for hours on end?

"Tors _ten,_ " I moaned, collapsing against his chest, panting.

He just chuckled and held me in his arms. "That good? Do you think you can hold it in?"

I tried to push the plug out a little, but the end of it had been designed so that it narrowed just around my sphincter and then flared out both inside and outside: the tightness of the trousers took care of the rest, securing the plug in place. 

"Yes. For a while at least, I think. What are you going as?"

He opened another hat box and pulled a large, black wolf mask over his head. "Arooo!"

"I don't believe this," I groaned and buried my face in my hands. 

"If it helps you at all, I'm going to be wearing one of these, too," he said and lifted out a similar plug, with a thick black wolf's tail attached to it. "But one more thing before we go," he said, removing the mask and sitting down on the bed, patting his thighs. "Come, kneel here, that's it. You said you were out of perfume, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Then let me give you the most special perfume of all," he said and took out his cock and his balls. 

He began to rub his genitals against my neck, my face and my throat and I laughed out loud: this was perfect. Because how different was this, after all, from the usual scents of musk, civet, castoreum, hyraceum? All these fine society ladies who sprayed themselves with secretions from animal glands, smelling like piss and dung, thinking themselves refined, paying hundreds of dollars for the real thing, and now I got it for free. The true scent of sex, the animal must of the human rut; I shivered in delight as the wetness at the tip of his cock, the mixture of seminal fluid and piss and sweat dipped into the hollow of my throat. 

"God, I love you," I laughed, shaking my head.

He chuckled, cupped my head in his hands and kissed me. "I knew you didn't truly hate me."

"I still do, a little, you know."

"Then I'm just going to have to fuck you all the harder for that tonight, aren't I, my little vixen?" he laughed against my lips.

***

Arm in arm, wolf and fox we strolled into the ballroom, our tails a-swinging. Torsten's tuxedo jacket and the fluffiness of my tail were enough to cover the flaps in our trousers; no one could have told our tails did disappear inside of our bodies, and we relished this. I could feel his erection as we danced together, feel that he was even more aroused than usual; his body was at times trembling against mine, the way he was always so overwhelmed every time his ass was stimulated in some manner. In fact, I was jealous of how much more amazing the beads must have felt inside of a man's body, knowing how much more sensitive his anus was, how sensitive his prostate, when even my own experiences of anal pleasure had always been sublime. I adored the way the toy felt inside of me, the thrill of wearing it in public, the way its constant vibrations made me shimmer, glow with desire.

"These beads are a work of genius," I purred against his neck, my pussy heavy, rich with sap. "Can you smell me?"

"We've _got_ to find someplace to fuck," he groaned in my ear, the soft fur of his mask brushing against my neck. "I'm ruining my trousers."

"This early?" I laughed and ground my hips against his, thinking to tease him a little. "We haven't even been introduced to all the guests yet."

But it was then that an awful, shrill laugh pierced the air behind us. I turned to see who it was, and it was a redheaded woman in a pink cat costume, pretending to be clumsy so that she could get men to mop champagne off her breasts, giggling in a most vapid manner. I hated her immediately, hated her childishness and the squeakiness of her voice, hated her affected manners. But we didn't manage to dodge her in time: now, she fell over us, spilling her champagne all over Torsten's tuxedo front.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry!" she giggled. "This stuff makes me so tipsy, you see," she said, snorting a little as Torsten began to wipe us clean--I could tell he was not happy and wanted to be rid of her as soon as possible. 

" _Please_ excuse my manners," she cooed, offering her hand for kissing. "Mrs. Vera Segert. I can pay for the dry cleaning bill. My husband always says I shouldn't drink at all--he's a doctor, you see--"

My heart stopped and crashed through the floor. _Vera Segert. Vera Segert._ The wife the bastard had been telling me about, the wife he had told me he was about to divorce, suspecting she had been unfaithful to him. No wonder, I thought: her costume was even more blatantly sexual than mine, revealing more of her breasts and her back than it hid, her manner vulgar, cheap, that of a woman not of breeding but who had only got far in life because of her looks. Segert deserved her, I thought, with some sick satisfaction; I was really not surprised he was the type to marry such a stupid little doll. Nor would I have been surprised had it been she he had acquired his venereal diseases from.

I was stunned for long moments, only barely heard Torsten introducing us to her by some false names-- _Hans Walter?_ What an awful name, the name of some pudgy blond German boy in lederhosen! He was clearly running out of ideas. And did I truly look like a Roberta?

"Where's your husband?" Torsten asked Vera pointedly, but of course, she was completely oblivious to the barb.

"Oh, dear, sweet Gustaf! He stayed at home to take care of Stefan--the poor thing had that flu that's been going around--but he knew how important this party was and how I couldn't _possibly_ miss it--they're probably going to come and pick me up soon, and I _so_ hate to leave early--"

"You have a son?" Torsten asked. Torsten turned to look at me and what I saw in his eyes horrified me, thrilled me; even through the eye-holes of his mask, I could see he was smiling. In that moment, he was no longer _pretending_ to be a wolf, oh, no; he was a beast all right, and had scented a fawn.

"Oh, yes, and he's just at that age when you can't control them, you know, the storms of puberty and all that, and we should be looking for a job for him this summer, but all he wants to do is play baseball!" she tittered.

Half of her words passed me by; I kept staring at Torsten. _Gustaf Segert had a son._ The bastard had a son. Oh, this would be so much better than just murdering Segert, so much more satisfying. Now, we could _truly_ make him suffer. Torsten's cock shifted in his trousers, and Vera assumed it was at her, but I knew it was our shared inspiration that he now stirred at, our shared evil that aroused him so. 

Slowly, carefully, Torsten tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. "What a coincidence. I have been looking for a secretary, you see," he purred at Vera, slinking his hips. "Nothing too demanding, simply the posting of letters, that sort of thing."

"Oh, but he's much too young for office work," Vera lisped, wringing her hands. "And he simply doesn't understand letters or numbers," she snickered, "takes after his mother." 

"A pool boy, then," I said, half-jokingly.

Vera clapped her hands together and cried out in delight, her mouth an O, her eyes wide. "But that's perfect!" she cried. 

I could not _believe_ what I saw, as if I had fallen into some absurdly awful farce, but her reaction was genuine. Torsten and I looked at each other, astounded. Finally, he cleared his throat and bowed. "I'll see to it." He gave Vera one of his business cards, and I could see him going through several, so that he gave her one that matched the name he had given her. "But now, if you'll excuse me, my wife and I must dash."

"Of course!" she squeaked. "Thank you ever so much, Mr. Walter." Smiling, she skipped back to her admirers, jiggling her buttocks and her breasts.

"I don't believe it," I murmured as Torsten took me by the arm and dragged me out of the ballroom. "What just happened?"

"I don't know, but I am feeling all Greek all of a sudden," Torsten laughed, a laughter so high it had turned into a shrill giggle by the time we had reached the nearest broom closet, just behind the cloakroom.

"We haven't even seen the boy yet, and already you've seduced him! Do you think he's as ugly as his father?"

"Or as terrible a slut as his mother?" Torsten cackled as he tore off our masks, devouring my mouth with furious force. He couldn't wait and neither could I; we groped, squeezed each other violently, desperate for release. "Fuck--!" he groaned and slammed me face against the wall, lifted the flap underneath my tail and pushed his cock straight into my pussy. 

I screamed, but he clapped his hand over my mouth; I was shocked at how little it hurt to be fucked even with the plug inside of me, that's how wet I was. Our criminality, our utter evil drove our lust to a fever pitch; he pummeled into me with such force I was lifted onto my toes, my face burning against the brick wall. I clawed at the wall so violently I broke two nails, howled into his hand as with each one of his thrusts, the spheres vibrated inside of me, making me gush wildly over his balls, wetting my thighs. He was moaning in my ear, drooling in its whorls, panting, disgusting; his sperm so voluminous it burst out of my pussy, yet he kept on fucking me. He tore at my breasts, spun me around on his cock so that he could kiss me, lifting me up so that I was held up only by his arms, his hips and the wall.

"You pederast," I moaned into his mouth, clawing at his hair as I held onto him, milking him with my pussy as much as I could. "You molester, you candyman, you--"

And now he roared into my mouth, biting my tongue until my slurs turned into screams, his hips beating into my buttocks, my head hitting the wall so hard I saw stars. "It's what you made me into, you little slut," he hissed, "showing off your little baby pussy, jiggling your tits, your sweet little candy ass--"

"Fuck me, Daddy," I panted against his mouth, my mouth drawing a bloodied stripe against his moustache. "Fuck me like you'll fuck that little child; fuck me, fuck me," I howled, he pounding into me with such rage I came on and on around him, the vibrations enveloping my entire body, enveloping him, rings and rings of pleasure cascading around us both. I was sucking him inside of myself with my contractions, my Daddy so deep in my pussy, my little baby pussy, filling the entire closet with its sweet scent.

He slapped me, hard, and pulled back so fast I fell into a heap on the floor.

"Get up," he said, jerking his cock, licking my blood off his lips, rocking his hips. I could tell he was clenching his ass around his tail, his cock entirely wet, slick in his fist. "Face against the wall, ass up, just like that," he said and lifted my tail to rest across the small of my back. " _Fuck._ You should see yourself."

But I could imagine it: my entire body encased in tight, white fabric, only the pink wetness of my full, flushed pussy sticking out of it, and I shuddered. "You should take a photo when we get home," I said, rocking my ass at him, biting down on a moan as a rivulet of sperm pursed out of my pussy and splashed onto the floor. 

"I will," he groaned as he began to ease the tail out of me with little dips and thrusts, snorting between my buttocks as he licked every inch of the plug, hissing as he adored my gaping flesh. "But now, quiet," he said and brought the plug to my mouth, "or someone will hear."

Greedily, whorishly I moaned around the plug, so sweet and warm and slick from my ass, shuddering around the taste. But oh, oh, the pain as he spat on his cock and started to push it inside of my ass, the walls of my rectum so sore from the toy, from its curves: I was glad of the plug and bit down on it hard, screamed into it so that now the spheres were vibrating inside my skull.

And it was because of my screams that I didn't at first hear it, the creak of the door; the flashes of pleasure had so blinded me I did not realise there was more light coming in through now, that we were being watched. 

But Torsten had noticed, and now, he stopped, and I craned my head to see who was at the door. 

I could see the silhouette of a scrawny, adolescent boy, the yellow light of the corridor glancing off his ginger hair.

"Stefan! Stefan! You're not supposed to go in there! Come on, we're leaving! Hurry up!" Vera's shrill voice rang in the cloakroom.

Torsten snorted and burst into laughter, a laughter wild, raucous, _awful;_ the boy leapt in fright and ran.


	9. Chapter 9

It was decided. We were going to seduce a child. I marvelled at how natural this felt to me, how I had no qualms about it, having discovered sexuality as a child myself. They said that people who had a taste for the young had been taken at a young age themselves, didn't they? Torsten said that in this, too, I was thinking like the homosexual: he did not know a single one who hadn't once been molested by older men. The only thing that felt wrong to me about this endeavour was that I was convinced the boy was going to enjoy himself--it would only be Segert himself who would feel violated at us having corrupted his son. And as having sex with an older woman would be nothing but a feather in a young man's cap, it was essential that we seduce the boy into homosexuality as well; that we awakened in him the very perversions his father despised and wanted to eradicate from the world. 

And what a pretty little debauchee our Stefan would make. He was just about to turn fourteen, and had already started on his growth spurt; he was a little taller than me, all thin and gangly. His eyebrows and eyelashes were surprisingly dark, dark gray and mahogany, so that he did not look as eerily colourless as most redheads: his eyes were wide, blue-green, excitable. But oh, how fair he was, how translucent his skin: every time I gifted him with a kind word or a smile, it wasn't just his freckled cheeks that flushed scarlet, but his neck and chest as well.

He wasn't the brightest of lads, but not completely useless either, so in addition to cleaning the pool, he would run small errands for us, handle Torsten's correspondence, take calls from our business partners. We paid him handsomely for it, made sure to treat him with excessive kindness so that he took a liking to us, practically worshipped us. He looked up at Torsten in awe, said he wanted to become a businessman just like him--the irony, when Torsten knew more about grooming than business and I was still the one who handled most of our affairs!

And it was in grooming that Torsten educated the boy the most: he showed him how to apply pomade (with my protestations ringing in their ears!), even had a fine, dark blue suit made for the lad, the first one he'd ever worn, he told us.

"I've never had a boy that young, in fact," Torsten said as Stefan left the office, whistling in delight. Torsten lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, sighing happily. "But there's a first time for everything."

"He's older than I was when you first had me," I said and lit a cigarette myself, sprawling on the office sofa, already assessing it for seduction purposes. It was a heavy, sturdy Chesterfield upholstered in blood-red leather, perfect for fucking. "Was I the youngest you'd ever had?"

"I think so, yes. Berlin was full of child prostitutes, you know. Thousands of them. They would jump you at the train station, try and drag you into alleyways by your sleeve wherever you went. I regret never having given them a try; I was too busy enjoying all the grown men on offer. Everything you've ever heard about that place was true; it was Heaven if you wanted another man's cock in your ass. All gone, now, of course."

"Your first time. How old were you?" I asked, realising I had never asked him this before. It was hard for me to imagine Torsten ever not having been sexual.

He rubbed his forehead with his fingers, lost in thought. "Depends on what you count. Fumblings with other boys, or being taken?"

"Being taken."

He thought of it for a while, then grinned widely. "I must have been around twelve, I think. 1905. God, now you're making me feel old," he laughed. "The doctor's office at school. I was a _very_ beautiful young boy, you see," he drawled. "They tested whether we had reached sexual maturity by doing this thing with a cold spoon where they cupped our balls, to see if our genitals would react to touch."

"Really?" I sputtered.

He nodded. "Yes, really. Standard procedure."

"I just had a nurse peeking into my panties to see if I had grown pubic hair," I murmured. "And asking if I'd been bleeding yet."

He laughed, revelling in his telling me this tale, twisting sensually in his chair, leaning out of it like a girl gossiping with another. "He was surprised to see how big I was already. And would you believe it, he sank down onto his knees and sucked me!"

I rolled my eyes. "Unbelievable."

"You wound me."

I shook my head. "I apologise. I should no longer be surprised at all. Go on."

"I'd already been fingering myself when masturbating, you see, and knew how these things worked. So I just bent over and offered him my ass. It hurt a little at first, but with a few dollops of vaseline, he was in and I had the biggest orgasm of my life. Completely ruined his desk with it, too, I'm glad to report. There's probably still a medical file on me in a cabinet somewhere, stained with my come," he laughed and blew smoke out of his nostrils.

"What about women?"

He stumped his cigarette. "Ah, now that's a longer tale, and a more complicated one at that. I'll tell you some other time."

"As long as you do, Daddy," I said, kissing his cheek as he sat next to me and put his arm around me. "Was it an older woman, too? Because if it was, you have to tell me. I need to know what to do if I'm going to seduce a boy."

He rested his hand on my thigh and rubbed it. "Just appeal to his natural instincts. He's at an age where he'll be stiff just from seeing a woman, or feeling a gust of wind on his fly, trust me. No complicated seductions are needed; stir him a little until he's hard, and then you can just take him by the prick and lead him wherever you want."

"You talk like Mae West," I laughed.

He hooked his finger into my collar and pulled me close. "Why don't you come up and see me," he drawled, and I laughed into his kiss.

***

I stretched out on my lounger beside the pool, grinning to myself as I contemplated the scene, the lady of the house teasing the pool boy. It was straight out of a pornographic pulp novel, this entire setting, and Stefan was playing into my hand beautifully. I was wearing my skimpiest swimsuit, all white and with no skirt part, so that my nipples and the curves of my pussy and my ass could easily be seen through it. Little Stefan was nervous already as he fished debris out of the pool, working more slowly so that he could keep on staring at me; I pretended to focus on my book and tried not to laugh out loud. When he finished, it looked as if he really didn't want to go, hesitating with his tools, not taking them to the shed yet.

"Stefan," I crooned, smirking at him.

He dropped his net so that it clattered onto the concrete. "Yes, m'am?"

"Come here," I said, turning to sit on the side of the lounger so that as I moved my legs, he could see the outline of my pussy. I took out a jar of suntan lotion and held it out to him. "I was going to put some on, but it's hard to reach my back. Would you mind?"

"Oh, it's not a problem, m'am, not a problem at all," he said and walked over to me. He was flushed all over again, the flush disappearing into the collar of his short-sleeved shirt, and I fancied I could see a little tenting in his shorts already. He nearly fell over as he couldn't decide whether to sit next to me on the lounger or to remain standing, not sure of what would have been more appropriate.

"Sit," I said, patting the lounger, and casually, slid down the shoulder straps of my swimsuit, turning my back to him. I bit my lip as I pulled the swimsuit even lower, so that now he could see I had bared my breasts, but he couldn't see them: the perfect tease, giving him just a little but not enough. "Just the back, go on."

"Y-yes, m'am," he said, and the way he fidgeted with the jar, I was worried he would break it.

But as his hands, his fumbling, long-fingered boy's hands touched my back, I was charged with an exquisite sense of power. I had never felt so grown up, so much a woman of the world before, an experienced seducer, taking what I wanted and using my voluptuousness as my weapon. Is this what Torsten had felt when he had taken me, I wondered? The initiator, the priest about to perform the sacred rite of deflowering as an offering to Venus and Priapus? Because that's how I felt, taking this boy by the hand and leading him to manhood, my breasts swelling, my nipples crinkling, a soft warmth spreading from my pussy into my hips. I even moaned a little, groaned in delight as he kneaded my back, smiling over my shoulder at him.

"That feels good," I said, my voice thick from lust, the exact same croon I gave to Torsten over my shoulder whenever he was fucking me deep, deep, deep in the ass. 

But now Stefan had run out of skin to rub cream into and he held his palms up, not knowing where to put his hands. Without further ado, I turned around, my breasts still bared, and began to dry his hands with my towel. 

"What's the matter, Stefan?" I asked. "The cat got your tongue?"

He just stared at my breasts and swallowed. "N-no, m'am."

"I saw you looking at me earlier," I said, mock-scolding--and oh, now the boy was terrified! "You are a naughty little peeping Tom, aren't you, Stefan?"

He now stared at the towel instead. "I'm sorry."

I laughed and tossed the towel aside and brought his hands to my breasts. "You can touch them if you like. Have you ever been with a girl?"

"No," he mumbled, now fascinated by my breasts, encouraged by my gesture: definitely erect by now, he squeezed my breasts a little too hard, a little too eagerly, testing the way they felt in his hands.

"You have to be a little more careful with them," I said. "But you can pinch the nipples, like this. Try."

He did, far too fast, far too sudden, and a jolt of heat went into my pussy at his clumsiness; I was swooning against him, my breathing rapid, now, and I nuzzled his nose with mine. "That hurts, Stefan," I grinned, "but keep going."

"Do you like being hurt?" he blurted, astounded, and immediately let go of my nipples.

I just brought his hands back to my breasts and dropped a little kiss on his lips. "Many women do, if it's the right sort of pain," I murmured, moaning as he pinched me again. "Oh, you're learning. Just like that. Feels really good in my pussy, too."

He moaned against me, his cheek so soft, his lips such a fresh, glossy pink as he nuzzled me back, too scared to initiate a kiss, so I did it for him. He didn't know where to put his tongue, of course, so I just took his mouth with mine, sure that this was his first kiss, too. Such a delicate, slick, fresh little mouth, and soon Torsten would fuck it with his cock: I chuckled in pleasure into his mouth, drunk from my own evil.

"Let's see what you've got here," I crooned and undid his fly. His cock stood up hard, as hard as only a teenaged boy's can: sadly, it was as small as his father's, and I doubted it would ever grow much past its current length. My palm covered the entirety of his shaft, the head of his cock bright, rosy, shining as I slid down his petal-soft foreskin. "Do you like that?" I asked as I began to stroke him.

"Yeah," he whimpered, his voice breaking, his hips jerking against me, he losing control completely. "Oh, but that feels so good, m'am; please don't stop, please."

"I won't, if you promise not to tell anyone," I said, as if Torsten wasn't hiding behind us in the bushes, listening to us this very minute. "Then we can do this again. Do you promise?"

"I-I promise," he whimpered, but then he was coming, gasping, moaning, spilling all over my hand. "I'm sorry; I really am, I'm so sorry," he muttered and started to mop up the mess with the towel.

"Never mind," I said and tucked my breasts back into my swimsuit, my pussy now having soaked through the fabric. "But you must go home now; it's already past five. I don't want your parents to get worried." 

"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asked, now a little bolder; I found this adorable.

I stroked his cheek and gave him a slow, deep kiss. "I will. Hans will be away all day, and I have so many things to show you. It'll be our special day, I promise."

He was beaming. "I'll see you tomorrow, then!" he said. He even kept looking back at me several times as he left, not believing his luck. 

"Now, that was _exquisite,_ " Torsten said after the sound of Stefan's bicycle had retreated into the distance. "A seduction worthy of the Barring name," he purred as he slid off my swimsuit and buried his face in my pussy. "God, I could smell this from seven feet away," he groaned.

"And I learned all my tricks from my Daddy," I said, pushing my pussy into his face, now blind from frustration. "God, I can't wait any longer; the little bastard drove me mad. Fuck me. Hard."

"With pleasure," he murmured onto my lips with a pussy-sweet kiss. As he rocked himself inside of me, his cock was as hard as rock even if he wasn't wearing a single ring or strap, so aroused had he been by the sight. But oh, his cock, his cock, just what I had wanted, the cock of a grown man, just as big as I needed it to be, he taking me with such force I screamed. 

***

The next day was to be office duty for little Stefan; he arrived wearing his suit--and far too much cologne. This filled me with a sickening revulsion immediately, as the cologne was his father's; it nearly killed my desire dead.

"You shouldn't wear that awful stench," I said, blunt from the force of my shock, trying to suffocate my traumatic flashback underneath a confident tone of voice. "It doesn't suit you."

"Really?" his face fell.

"Yes, really. And it gives me a headache; I can't stand that particular smell. Reminds me of hospitals. I will let you have a look at Hans's colognes later; his taste is very refined. But we'll get to that once you've sorted out the paperwork; then we can play. All right?"

Stefan nodded. He'd never gone through the papers as fast as he did today: he was done in under an hour. I strutted into the office, carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits, wearing a tight dress of black satin with a very short skirt. His awkwardness immediately made me feel better: in fact, the scent of the cologne served to remind me of who it was that I was now truly subjugating with the force of my body, my sexuality. That the son should be swallowed by the exact thing his father hated--oh, bliss. Again, I deliberately flashed Stefan as I sat down on the sofa; I crossed my legs so slowly he could get a good look at my stocking tops, perhaps even a glimpse of my bare pussy underneath.

"All done?" I said, sipping from my coffee, glancing at him slyly from underneath my lashes. 

He turned around in Torsten's chair, dipping the pen back into the inkwell with a flourish. "Yes, m'am."

"Call me Roberta."

"Roberta, Roberta," he said, sitting next to me on the sofa, quivering like a hound from his excitement. 

"Please, have some coffee, Stefan."

"Not now," he beamed, "I'm only interested in you, Roberta." He was unable to tear his eyes off me, adoring my face, my hair; I was quite taken by this. Was this what normal girls of my age felt, being courted by teenage boys? He was only four years younger than I, after all. 

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you," Stefan said, his voice breaking a little again; he forced it to a lower register, trying to sit up straight, eagerly rushing towards manhood now that I had led him to its threshold. "Why on earth--and I apologise if I'm insulting you, Roberta--" he clasped my hand with his.

"Yes?"

"Well... it's just that you're so young and so beautiful. Why on earth did you marry an old man?"

My heart fell. I had been expecting that question; I knew he was going to ask it, yet I still hated him for it. 

"You _are_ insulting me."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Never ask a woman that. Even if she _had_ married an old man for his money, you would still be implying she was prostituting herself. It's rude. Incredibly rude."

"But was that the reason?"

I pulled back my hand, now truly angry. He was such a stupid, stupid child. "I should slap you."

"I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that, but you're not. Stefan, you've seen Hans--you practically adore him. Why, then, would it be so hard for you to understand that I love him? Because I do. From the bottom of my heart," I said, hating myself for getting so emotional, my throat dry, constricted.

But it was Stefan who now cleared his throat. "Then what are you playing at? I might be just a kid, but I'm not stupid." And to my great astonishment, he took my hand and laid it over his erection, a vulgar, awful act, something I would only expect from a dirty old man. A man like his father, in fact. And with similar arrogance, similar laconic matter-of-factness, he now addressed me, squeezing my hand around his little prick. "You might love him, Roberta, but you wanted this, and you still do."

In order not to punch him, I shut him up with a kiss. He responded passionately, so I considered the matter closed, kneading his erection just a little too hard to punish him a little. The little bastard was so full of energy, so full of health; I felt so jealous of him that this jealousy now twisted like a basket full of snakes in my gut. I wanted not only to fuck him, but to tear into his beauty and suck him dry, to take his health and give it to Torsten. Oh, what a fool I'd been, never having found vampire myths that interesting: now that I had the shadow of death hanging over me and my happiness, I truly understood how someone might want to become one. If this boy's blood could make us live forever, or even give us a few more years of health, I'd exsanguinate him immediately, and I knew Torsten would do the same.

Speak of the Devil: for it was now that Torsten chose to manifest himself, clearing his throat pointedly, and we saw him lounging against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets.

"Mr. Walter!" Stefan squeaked, taking his hands off me as if he had been burnt. "I can explain, I--please don't tell my parents, I'll do anything you say--"

Torsten quirked his eyebrow. "Anything? I might just take you up on that offer, young man," he chuckled, his smile jagged, hideous, sending a chill down my spine. He pushed himself off the doorframe with his hips, slinking into the room with an exaggerated feline laziness. "Now. What am I going to do with you?" he purred, obviously relishing the chance to use that phrase.

I pulled my skirt down a little; his stern manner frightened me so that I didn't have to _act_ shocked. In seconds, Torsten was upon me: he grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back violently. "Did you really think you could get away with it, you little slut?" he laughed, his chuckle cold, his smile never reaching his eyes. But now, he turned to Stefan instead, still holding me by the hair, shaking me a little in the way he knew would make me wet. "She's a nymphomaniac, you see. Do you know what that word means? It's a woman who can't get enough sex. You aren't the first one she's tried to seduce."

"I'll never touch her again, I promise," Stefan said, moving backwards on the sofa.

"Ooh, no, no, no," Torsten tutted, pouting. "But that's exactly what I want you to do," he said and shook me by the hair again. "Roberta here is going to do what she set out to do and you're going to do likewise." He let go of my hair and slid into his chair. "And _I_ am going to _watch._ "

Stefan looked at Torsten, then at me, then at Torsten again, his mouth gaping. "I--"

"Do as you're told, and you might keep your job. I told you I'd make a man out of you, Stefan, so we might as well go all the way," Torsten said and gave his groin a little stroke.

"You're a disgusting pervert," I spat, my entire body now in a chaos of hatred and lust. The way Torsten sprawled in his chair and leered at me made my pussy squeeze hungrily; at the same time, I wanted to slap him. There were so many things about Stefan that put me off him, and I knew Torsten derived more sexual satisfaction from this than I ever could. 

Yet I knew we had to go through with this. Therefore, I was determined to get _some_ pleasure out of this at least, and that meant that I had to become the sadist, had to twist this entire scenario into something that gave me satisfaction through simple revenge alone. 

Torsten nodded. "Show me how you were going to seduce him. Go on."

"What if I refuse to play?" Stefan said.

"Refuse?" Torsten laughed, as if what Stefan had just said was one of those quaint little utterances parents so adored in their children. "I don't think you want to, do you? I mean, look at her. She's a delicious little piece of ass. And you wouldn't want me to tell your parents that I caught you fondling her, now do you? Therefore, you," he pointed to Stefan and then me, "fuck her," and then he pointed to himself, "I'll watch and we'll all keep quiet about it, and we'll all benefit. Is that such an _unreasonable_ arrangement?"

"No," Stefan murmured, and he was still erect; it's as if his fright had aroused his desire even further. 

"Then let me help," Torsten purred, his voice now soft, fond. "We'll take her together, like men," he said and stepped out of his chair, ruffling Stefan's hair. "It'll be our little secret. Now." He began to undo Stefan's tie, and Stefan had never quivered more: Torsten's touch froze him, widened his pupils even more than the sight of my breasts had done. "We'll need this to tie her hands behind her back so that she won't squirm too much, you see," Torsten said and did so; "I am going to show you how to maintain discipline in your household."

Oh, God. I hadn't expected this, but of course, Torsten was never going to do anything halfway. I screamed as he dragged me away from the sofa and sat in his chair, draping me over his lap for a spanking. 

He lifted up my skirt and whistled, pretending to be surprised. "Would you look at that! No panties whatsoever! Now, Stefan, what do we call a girl like this?"

Stefan swallowed. "I--I don't know."

Torsten let out a snorting laugh and danced his fingertips across my buttocks, each one of his chuckles making my pussy clench over and over. "Come on. Begins with an S."

Stefan still hesitated a little, as if I was about to explode at him if he used that word, as if Torsten was going to explode at him if he didn't. "A slut?" he croaked, finally.

"Right the first time," Torsten said, then gave my ass a hearty smack. "Here, come closer." He positioned us so that my ass was now inches from the sofa; I could feel Stefan's body heat. "I want to show you something. Ever looked at a woman down here? No? Not even in photographs?"

"Some," Stefan murmured. 

"Bet you've never seen a shaven one," Torsten said as he spread my buttocks with both hands and displayed my pussy to him. "Take a look at that. All smooth, just like a little girl's. Turns her on, you see. To play a little girl to an older man. Doesn't it, my dear?" He smacked my ass once more.

"You bastard," I groaned, still playing my part, even if my insult was heartfelt.

He just took my hair and shook my head by it again, his other hand's fingertips over my pussy, pressing against the opening of my vagina. This way, he could feel me clenching at each shake, my masochist's body hopelessly responding to the pain with keen arousal; I could feel his cock shifting against my belly from his own sadism in turn. "She loves this, too," he crooned, lifting strings of my wetness out for Stefan to see. "That's how wet a girl gets when she's really aroused, you see. Here, you give it a try."

Stefan said nothing; even if I couldn't see his face, I could feel his adolescent curiosity, the way his body was drawn to mine by the pull of his hormones, by the sheer erotic magnetism of my bare sex. I could feel his breath on my pussy, and there they were, his clumsy, fumbling boy's fingers: he skimmed my slit at first and I pulsed again. Torsten must have been guiding him, however, because soon he was pushing two fingers inside of me, far too swift, so roughly it hurt: I cried out and kicked reflexively, trying to shake him out of me. 

"Stop!"

"What was that?" Torsten laughed and shook me by the hair once more. "You wanted a boy's fingers in your pussy, and now you've got them. If anything, you should be _thanking_ me for being such an understanding husband. Stefan, fuck her with them."

But Stefan hurt me; his long, hard fingers seemed endless as they probed me, explored me, withdrawing and then pushing deeper again: I cried out in true pain, howling and kicking in Torsten's lap, but he held me still. "I can't hear you," Torsten sing-songed. "Where's my 'thank you?'"

"Thank you," I moaned, just so that he would stop; the very moment I did, he gestured for Stefan to withdraw.

"Taste them, go on," Torsten said. "Sweet, isn't she?"

"Oh, my God!" Stefan said, genuinely astounded.

"Not all women taste as sweet as she does, so you are a very lucky young man. I don't share her with just anyone for this very reason. I want to keep her pussy _fresh_ , you see," Torsten leered, his tongue smacking wetly in his mouth, disgusting. "Let's see if we can make her even sweeter," he said and slapped me across the buttocks, then, a dozen hard strokes, burning my ass so sweetly that my arousal rose once more. 

"Stop!" I moaned again, knowing how much this would turn Torsten on; he gifted me with half a dozen more slaps, my vulva now so swollen each one of his strokes met it. He kept on smacking me, now hitting me directly over the pussy, so that his hand was completely smeared from my juices. But he wasn't sated with that: finally, finally he pushed his fingers inside of my pussy, his heavenly, skilled fingers, the fingers that knew exactly where to press and rub. He fucked me with his hand, fucked me so perfectly I spasmed in his lap, so close to orgasm now, feeling as if my head was about to explode from all the blood that had rushed to it, the way I was now hanging off him. 

"Please, please, please," I cried.

But I should've known he wouldn't make it so easy for me. With a nauseating slosh, he yanked his fingers out of my pussy, then sucked them, moaning around them theatrically. "Mmm. Delicious. Go on, my boy," he said, his own voice now reedy from desire as he spread my pussy out for Stefan to see. "Taste it. Give it a little lick. Every woman _loves_ that, but it's the sluts who love it the most."

I expected Stefan to hesitate, but Torsten had barely finished his words when the boy's knees thudded against the floor and his face was buried in my pussy. A child's face in my pussy, lapping at me; I was reminded of one bizarre drunken night when we had stayed at Helena's and one of her dogs had started to lick my pussy mid-sex. And Torsten had encouraged the dog, just as he was encouraging Stefan, now: I braced my hands against the arm of the chair and looked over my shoulder, and Torsten was caressing Stefan's head with what almost looked like tenderness. Torsten, with his cock hard against my belly, his fingers carding greedily through the red gold of Stefan's hair: it was this sight, the sheer perversion of it that aroused me far more than Stefan's tongue did. Finally, I started to relax into this, now that I had fully become an instrument of Torsten's once more, the wicked smile he flashed me sending ripples of heat all throughout my hips. He was using this child as a sex aid, moving his head on my pussy as if he would a toy, and this was what brought me to the brink of orgasm, an orgasm of sheer hatred and spite--

But it was then that he yanked Stefan's head back by the hair and _kissed him._ Stefan screamed into his mouth, jerked in his grip, clutching at my thighs, the chair: it was a beautiful cry, a deflowering in and of itself, a pederastic rape in a simple kiss. I moaned, wave after wave of pleasure washing through my womb as I watched Torsten sucking on Stefan's tongue, smearing his face with his spittle and the fluids of my pussy. I writhed, so desperate to come, trying to rub myself against Torsten's legs, trying to squeeze my thighs and my pelvic muscles to make myself come, but I couldn't, I couldn't.

At that, Torsten let go of Stefan and licked his lips. "Get your dick out. I want to see you fuck her pussy," he groaned, his voice thick from lust and phlegm. 

It hurt me to try and look over my shoulder, positioned as I was, yet I had to see this: Stefan fumbled for so long that Torsten became impatient and undid his fly himself, taking his little cock in his hand and stroking it. "There we are," he murmured at Stefan and I wondered what he thought of as he felt it, touched it, its small size making Stefan seem even more like a child; I could feel Torsten's cock jerking against my belly again.

"That's right," Torsten continued to croon as he guided Stefan's cock inside of my pussy; I was so wet and he was so small I could barely feel it, only just past the entrance to my body, not even touching the most sensitive parts inside of me. A child, a child; I was being fucked by a child, a child that now responded to Torsten's kiss, to Torsten's hand stroking his buttocks as he rocked himself into me. 

"Please, please, please," I moaned at Torsten, because Stefan wasn't deep enough, and I needed more, needed Torsten to complete this circuit of wrongness, needed him to release me from this torment. 

"She wants you to rub her clitoris, you see. Do you know where it is?"

"Hmm?"

"Never mind," Torsten laughed and slipped his hand around me. He closed his hand into a fist and rubbed his knuckles against the top of my slit, grinding hard into me. "Is that what you want?" he asked as I arched in his lap, quivering, teetering on the brink. "Hmm?"

"Yes, yes, yes," I howled, tossing my head like a madwoman, "Please, please, Daddy, please," and as he spat on two fingers from his other hand and pushed them into my ass, I was finally set free. I howled, howled in gratitude, in sickening delight as my pussy spasmed around Stefan's tiny, child's penis, Torsten's hands pushing at me from either side, using my pussy to milk the boy, oh, God, oh, God. Stefan's voice rang shrill in my ears as Torsten squeezed him thus, he shivering behind me, thrusting into me with the shortest strokes I'd ever felt. With our flesh, we now consumed him, took him in, baptised him with our perversity: the greatness of Torsten's hands, the fatness of my pussy enclosing his smallness, my pussy now sucking, swallowing up his voluminous, thick sperm. 

Torsten laughed and held Stefan, kissed him as he shivered his last, stroking his ass. "How does it feel like to be a man?"

"I--oh, God--!" Stefan slid out of me and collapsed onto the sofa.

Torsten had mercy on me and untied me with a kiss, helped me onto the sofa beside Stefan and then spread my legs. "Look at that, Stefan. You blew quite a big load, didn't you?" he said, drawing strings of Stefan's come from my pussy, tasting them, visibly shivering as he feasted on his virgin sperm. Deliriously, I wondered if he thought of bottling it so that he might use it in one of his satanic rituals; I wondered if he indeed thought he was nourishing himself right now, feasting as he was on Stefan's youthful vitality. I lay there and closed my eyes, feeling, listening for them, Stefan's still-rapid breaths, Torsten's heavy, rasping ones. 

"Come, give her a kiss," Torsten said, guiding Stefan towards me.

Stefan's mouth was warmer, now; he was relaxed, less awkward, sweet as he kissed me, laughing shyly, a little apologetic. "It's an awful lot. I always make such a mess; I'm sorry."

"I don't mind," I said and pulled him into my arms, undressing the rest of him as I continued to kiss him, knowing exactly what Torsten had in mind. I pulled Stefan's still-hard cock inside of myself again and locked my ankles around his waist, rocking my hips against him; he penetrated me a little more deeply in this position so that now I could feel something at least. And the very moment he cried out in shock, I knew Torsten was upon him: I heard a snuffling, slurping noise behind me and realised it for that of Torsten's mouth sinking into Stefan's ass. Stefan clung to me, whimpering in his surprise, his hips jerking and jerking, his cock twitching a little inside of me as Torsten fucked him with his tongue; he was clearly horrified, but enjoyed the sensation too much to stop moving.

"What are you doing?" Stefan asked, his voice so high, now so very confused, the poor child completely out of his depth. I held his face between my hands, his cheeks now so full and flushed he looked no more than ten, a babe lost in the woods of sin. 

"Eating your ass," Torsten hissed, smacking both his buttocks, pushing him into me, using him to fuck me. "Your delicious little ass, God--!" he groaned, and now I could hear him undoing his belt, heard the metallic sound of a tin of glycerine opening. 

"But it's dirty," Stefan moaned, yet still the little tart kept on moving, now slipping completely out of me the way he pushed his ass back onto Torsten's tongue. "Oh--" and now he even farted, yet Torsten laughed raucously into his ass, lapping up that fart, snorting, grunting in disgusting delight. "I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry," Stefan sobbed, but soon he could no longer protest as I slid underneath him and sucked his cock into my mouth. 

He would need it for what was coming: roughly, Torsten arranged us so that I was sitting on the floor, sucking Stefan as he knelt upon the sofa, facing the wall. From between Stefan's legs, I could glimpse the monstrous beauty of Torsten's cock, greased up, a gleaming dark red, poised to take. Now this, _this_ aroused me beyond measure, the pain, the damage we were about to inflict on him, the sweet cruelty of it swirling hot into my veins. I had to shove three fingers into my pussy, rub my clitoris with my other hand, reaching for those places Stefan hadn't reached; I timed my strokes so that the moment Stefan cried out in pain, a judder of ecstasy went through me. 

"Please, please, please, oh, God, what are you doing?" So hopeless, so helpless, so confused--oh, his whimpers were nectar to my ears; I could see Torsten's balls jumping from our shared delight.

"I should have thought it was perfectly clear, Stefan, my dear," Torsten grunted and shoved Stefan against the sofa, dipping his cock into his ass, not even managing to insert the head yet. "We're _fucking you._ "

Stefan screamed, now, clawed at the leather of the sofa, but I kept on sucking him: had I been kind, I would have told him to breathe, to relax. But I enjoyed his stiffness, the way all the hair on his body stood on end, the way his cock softened completely in my mouth. I drank in his pain like fine wine, my pussy squeezing around my fingers as I could feel the psychic waves of misery this moment would send reverberating throughout time. This very moment, this very act and what it did to little Stefan would break his despicable father's heart, just like the bastard deserved.

I drew back for breath and adored the way Torsten forced Stefan's ass to yield, that tiny, milky white ass now impaled by the dark red brutality of Torsten's cock. That little red ring of flesh looked like an open wound--perhaps there was a hint of blood, the way Torsten now forced himself inside of him with such haste, such greed, having waited long enough; I relished the way Stefan's screams turned into sobs, then died out completely as he could no longer speak for being so overwhelmed.

Stefan's little, wet cock drooped sadly in front of my face; the only sound in the room was Torsten's heavy breathing, his puffs as he dipped in and out of Stefan, so big he could only penetrate him halfway. The brightness of the desk lamp burned my eyes; my fingertips were now crinkled, so long had I kept masturbating, mesmerised by this sight.

Finally, Stefan crumpled, fell onto the sofa; the saddest, highest of laments rose from his throat as he yielded. I could see his cock stiffening again, a little drop of wetness spurting from its tip as Torsten started to glide in and out of him more easily. This was what I had been waiting for: not just seeing him violated, but the horror at his realisation of how _good_ it felt, the way he was now becoming aware of his own prostate for the first time, the way each stroke of Torsten's sent another drop of pre-ejaculate dangling from the tip of his cock.

I rolled my hand around his cock, spreading that sap all over it; I chuckled against his balls. "How does that feel? I purred.

Torsten rolled his hips, a deep roll, making Stefan howl. "Answer her."

But he couldn't; the poor boy was now crying, weeping, his forearms wet from where he had been leaning his face into them. "I--I--"

"Am I hurting you?" Torsten asked, as if he cared, rolling his hips once more. "Hmm?"

"You--you're so good to me, Mr. Walter," Stefan whimpered, hiding his face in his arms, his flushed, red arms, his shoulders and chest scarlet, his cock dripping into my hand. "Oh, God, oh, God--"

"Does it feel good?" I asked, kissing the down of his belly, its quivering muscles.

"Yes," he whispered, his teeth grazing the soft skin of his arm, "yes."

"Then move back onto me," Torsten said gently, "and it'll feel even better. Angle your hips; show me where you want my cock."

Of course, Stefan keened at that; but I was astonished at the way he now dipped and curled his back, arched it like a cat, the same way I did whenever Torsten fucked me in the ass. He moved more loosely, more fluidly, letting out little noises whenever Torsten hit a spot that gave him pleasure. He was a natural, a natural, just as we had hoped for, with enough homosexual tendencies in him to get him addicted to anal penetration for the rest of his life. This was the true poison we were pouring into his veins: not that of mere molestation, but the awakening of a desire he would be haunted by until the rest of his days.

"Just like that, Stefan," I crooned at him, stroking my clitoris as I stroked his cock. "He fucks me like that, too, and it feels so good in the ass, doesn't it? So good once the pain passes. Like a drug."

"Yes, oh, yes," he sighed, now undulating back into Torsten's thrusts, Torsten's cock sliding almost all the way in now, absolutely beautiful as it split him in half. I had to adore Torsten, had to suck his balls, had to lick his cock as it sunk into this tiny ass, my arousal rising once more; all the while, I kept stroking Stefan, too. But the poor thing was too overloaded by sensation to come just yet, I was sure, so I took a break: I needed to be penetrated myself.

We'd brought the toy box here just in case we should need it, and I took out the ridged white dildo from the mouth gag, desperate to feel something intensely contoured against the walls of my neglected pussy. And there I lay, beside them on the sofa, giving Stefan a good view of my pussy as I masturbated with the toy, coming fast as I pounded myself with it, coming once, twice. Soon, Stefan was keening in his throat, clutching his cock, struggling as he still couldn't come, not while trying to stroke himself and balance on the sofa at the same time. 

"I think you should have mercy on him," I said to Torsten, teasing Stefan by sucking my juices off the dildo. 

"Perhaps," Torsten said, stealing a suck off the toy himself. "Come. Let's turn around."

And there, we finally gave our catamite his first true anal orgasm: Torsten sitting on the sofa, Stefan bouncing on his cock, now howling as he sunk onto it far deeper than before. And I had the best view of it all: Stefan facing me, impaling his little body on Torsten's cock over and over, his pale thighs shaking from the strain as he satisfied himself. I only had to kneel at their feet and suck Stefan's cock into my mouth and he came so hard he nearly fell off: Torsten had to clutch his hips, grind him hard down onto himself to keep him still. Even if Stefan had already come once, he still gave me an amazingly rich, thick mouthful; his sperm tasted sweet, far milder and fresher than Torsten's. 

Of course, I wanted to share this with Stefan, too; I stroked his cock and kissed that sperm into his mouth. "So, Stefan. How do you like being fucked?" I asked him sweetly as Torsten kept on rocking into him.

"I--I--" but then his head lolled to the side and he fell back into Torsten's arms in a dead faint. 

At first, I was alarmed, but Torsten just burst into laughter and kissed Stefan, stroked him into wakefulness. "That happened to me, too, one of my first times," he said as he caressed Stefan's cheek, still slowly undulating into him. "Lots of nerves down there, and you get overwhelmed when you aren't used to it," he said with a fatherly warmth. "But you're all right now, aren't you?"

"Yes," Stefan smiled and kissed him back, drunk from happiness. "It feels so good, Mr. Walter, so good."

"I think you can call me 'Hans' by now, my boy," Torsten chuckled and stroked Stefan's belly. "Now, go and lie down on the floor, face down, that's it. I'm going to make it feel even better for you," he said.

And oh, but the sight of Stefan's ass--it did not even gape as he slid off, that's how tiny, that's how tight it still was, but a dark pink slit. I just curled up on the sofa, perfectly relaxed as I watched Torsten sink into Stefan's body, now intent on satisfying only himself. It was one of the most shockingly erotic sights I had ever seen in my life: Stefan's tiny body entirely covered by Torsten's tall frame, his thin legs clasped together as Torsten fucked him from behind. All I could hear from Stefan were his ululations, his little animal howls of shock as Torsten sunk into him deeper than ever before, no longer holding back his thrusts. 

It was a brutal sight, a glorious sight, the beast taking his prey, no longer just playing with it: the ripples that went through the long muscles of Torsten's back and buttocks so exquisite I could feel them in my own body. He threw his hips into his thrusts, long, sweet, then short, spasming, and I knew he was coming: I adored the way his balls jumped once, twice, thrice as he poured himself into Stefan's ass, Stefan hiccoughing little sobs into the carpet as he was thus filled. 

They rested on the floor for long moments: I was reminded of the paintings on old Greek vases, of grown men embracing little boys. Stefan lay curled up in Torsten's arms, entranced, breathing softly, smiling angelically, his skin translucent, aglow from his pleasure. Even Torsten did not have the heart to awaken him from his reverie; he but stroked the boy's arm with his fingertips, revelling in the softness of his skin, and from his face I could tell he was lost in his own boyhood memories. And it struck me that he had come full circle, now, had reached one more milestone in his life, now passing on his own experiences of older men to the boy in his arms, letting him inherit these special pleasures men shared with each other.

But that only reminded me of why we were here, of whose son this was, and I could no longer hold back my disgust. I had come, yes, but what little pleasure I'd derived from this had been thanks to Torsten's sadism, and my enjoyment at having corrupted this little brat. I had not felt any true desire for the boy and I felt cold inside, wanted to cry: this had been but a little detour as far as I was concerned, but the first step on our journey towards the destruction of Segert. 

Segert. I had the sperm of another Segert inside of my body. I shuddered and excused myself, rushing into the bathroom so that I could rinse myself thoroughly.


	10. Chapter 10

I am fourteen years old. 

I am fourteen years old, and I am just returning home from school. As I open the door, a gust of wind blows a cloud of birch seeds against my legs, swirling around my hips and gliding over my breasts. Like sperm, I think; I am being bathed in plant sperm, the Devil upon the wind scattering his seed all over me, marking me as his.

I drop my backpack and unlace my shoes, and there's a man in the hallway behind me, a man in a dark, pinstriped suit, his perfume a woman's. 

"Ah, there you are." The man turns around and it's Torsten, Uncle Torsten. Even if it shouldn't be, couldn't be--he's here too early, he hasn't taken me yet, not until another year has passed. 

Yet it is him. My heart leaps in my chest, but he is upon me already, pressing me against the wall, his hand sliding up my skirt. I try to scream, but his other hand comes over my mouth just as the other one reaches my panties. 

"My, my. What have we here?" he purrs, and I knew he would say those exact words before he even uttered them, as if I'd heard him say them in a dream before, and now I am shivering with déjà vu. He purrs and he purrs, edges closer and closer. "Will you let Daddy have a taste?"

But he's not my Daddy yet, no, it's all out of skew, or perhaps he has always been my Daddy, has always been here and I just haven't realised. A part of me screams and asks what the hell I am doing as I run away, run up the wooden stairs. It's the part of me that's still scared of him, the part that will always remain pure, the part he will never cease to chase.

And as I run up the stairs, flight after flight, panting, almost in the attic now, he follows after. Yet he does not run, no: he just walks, calmly, his fingers drumming a tattoo against the banister. "What's the matter?" he grins, his teeth wolf-sharp. "I know what you're hiding underneath that skirt, my child," he says and licks his lips, his whorehouse-red lips, his always-gleaming-wet lips.

My heart is pounding, pounding--I am panting, yet he is calm, collected, not a hair out of place, advancing towards me. I turn and dive through the attic door, try to hold it shut. I lean against it with all my weight, but with supernatural strength, he pushes it open as if it were lighter than a feather. I stagger back, turn around, cobwebs wrapping about my face, my breasts, suffocating me. Coughing, I am pulled back against the wall, fixed to it by the cobwebs, the flags, held against it by the spears and the swords, the attic itself pinning me in place.

The floorboards creak under his feet; his smile flashes in the dark. "Laura, Laura," he sing-songs, and his steps creak nearer, nearer. And now he is close, so close, his breath hot upon my face. "What's the matter, what's the matter?" he sings still, slipping his hand between my thighs. "Daddy only wants to taste a little piece of your candy."

I scream, but he catches my scream with his mouth. His hand meets my pussy and I--I am no longer wearing panties, oh, God--I am smooth, I am wet, my pussy slick underneath his hand.

"There you are, there you are," he croons, taps at my pussy, slaps it. "You were waiting for me, weren't you?" He brings his hand to his mouth and laps at it, his tongue wide, an animal's, sucking his fingers, his eyes slitted in delight. He returns his hand to my pussy and presses, rubs harder. "Your little pussy all sweet and wet for Daddy."

"Yes," I cry into his mouth, his teeth clashing against mine. "Yes," I scream as his fingers curl inside of me, as I tremble upon him, against him, coming, coming. "Yes, Daddy."

He sucks the life out of me as I come, sucking the light of my orgasm out of me, beginning to glow, turning whiter, whiter. I fall onto the floor like an old, moth-eaten dress, billow, billow, billow out into dust.

He shines, glows in the darkness of the attic, the white shape of a man, a white god. The flags unfurl around him and billow as I had billowed, the cobwebs are swept away; the swords and the lances rattle restlessly. War. He wants war, he wants to devour, wants to conquer, wants to become whiter, vaster, swallow the entirety of the Earth within his belly; wants to glow, glow on until he outdazzles the sun. My Sun-King, my Heavenly Father, my most radiant: I sing inside of him, now, uncurl inside of him and lift his limbs, rise from his back a pair of white-hot wings. I sing, sing louder, higher, higher, a dying soprano, soar as he unfurls his wings and steps forward, and underneath his feet, nations are crushed--

"Laura! Laura, wake up! You're having a nightmare again. It's not real. Laura, do you hear me?"

I juddered into wakefulness, my heart pounding like cannon fire. Torsten was looking into my eyes, holding me by the shoulders, his eyes pale, his face pale from his illness; I must have awoken him. My pale god, my white god, the ceiling behind him white, the sheets white.

"Torsten," I slurred, trying to focus on his eyes, my limbs still too heavy so I couldn't caress his face, even if I wanted to. "I dreamt of you," I whispered. 

"Was I that terrifying?" he laughed a little dryly as he laid down beside me.

But now, I was finally able to move, and I clutched him tight, so tight. "Not to me, you weren't. But you were terrifying to everyone else. All the time, I knew that I should be terrified, but I wasn't. We were in Forssa, we were in the attic--" I frowned; it was so hard to describe the dream. "You kissed me, and you swallowed me, and then I saw you become a god," I whispered.

He laughed, but that laughter was interrupted by a cough, a cough so violent and wet he had to reach for his water, his pills.

"Please, not yet," I said, clasping his cock with my hand. "I want you." I knew the opiates would affect his virility, would make it harder for him to reach an erection, to have an orgasm for the next few hours or so. "I'm sorry, Daddy; I know I'm being selfish. But it's as if every day, I need you more and more."

He sipped his water with great difficulty, still coughing. "I understand. But Daddy's chest hurts very much," he said, hating himself for having to admit it, using his fatherly tone to be kinder to me while at the same time grasping for some sort of authority, control. "Let me take them now and I'll do something about it later tonight, all right?"

"All right," I murmured, hurt, even if I knew he must have been in pain, feeling deprived and ashamed at the same time.

He swallowed his pills and held me as he waited for them to take effect. "My poor child. You know I would fuck you all day if I could," he said hoarsely, his breathing still hitching in his chest. "It's not that I don't want to, Laura. God--if anything, I want to just swallow you up all the time, even more now. It's only this _fucking_ pain that stops me," he spat, throwing the sheets off himself; he was sweating from it. "And I hate you seeing me like this," he rasped, wincing, closing his eyes.

It was true: I was frightened, seeing my Daddy crumble like this; it was as if I was crumbling with him, he having been my strength, my inspiration, my love, my everything. Perhaps my dream had given me what my subconscious needed from him, feeling it was deprived of both the predation and the strength I so adored in him. As our mortality crept closer and closer, as the ticking of the clock grew louder and louder, I became more desperate, wanted each and every one of our encounters to be like the first. I wanted to be _molested_ by him, _consumed_ by him, just like in the old days.

And oh, how jealous I had been of Stefan, the way Torsten had turned his perversion on him these past few weeks. We had even given the boy perfumes and makeup, had taught him to wear women's underwear, had drugged him and taken him to a club of ill repute. In fact, we had only just let him go: when we had got him sufficiently used to drugs and whores, had helped him befriend older homosexuals, he had sworn he would run away from home--exactly what we had been hoping for. The night I had seen him in the lap of an old, rich man, squirming like a girl, off his little head on cocaine, I knew our work was done.

And now, we were once again alone. Always alone, always just the two of us, the Barrings against the world, and now even this defiant swansong was coming to an end. We only had a week left in America. A week, and within that week, we were to dispose of our fortune, murder Segert, leave for New York, then Stockholm. Then, Forssa. Then, death. Nothing more. The end. I felt I was loose, drifting, not entirely present in this world any longer, and I knew he felt the same, yet bitterness still swirled acidic in my chest.

"I read somewhere that love tends to die after two or three years," I whispered against his chest. "Perhaps this was meant to be; that we were to die before that could happen, before we would become dull, staid, trapped in old routines like normal people. Hating each other. Just like all married couples."

"One: we are not a married couple. Two: I strongly doubt whippings and sodomy could ever be called 'routine.' What we have is far more than that," he said and kissed my head. "We've talked about this before. I don't want us to bewail our fate and wring our hands, to be miserable about things we can't change, when we should be enjoying ourselves instead."

I snorted. "You know as well as I do that it isn't easy, considering."

"You're young," he sighed. "It's easier for me to let go, I suppose; I've had nearly fifty years. It's easier to become philosophical about it; fifty is more than some people ever get. It can't be easy when you're just seventeen, though." He nuzzled my hair, lost in thought. "Perhaps I should release you from your vows. To let you run off with some nice young man, to live a long and happy life. Who knows, you might live to a hundred."

"Never!" I screamed, now looking up at him. "It's as if you _want_ to be rid of me," I spat, wounded to the heart, tears welling up in my eyes. "I haven't had enough of you as it is, and now you are driving me away when we have so little time left. I won't have it, I won't!" I shouted, pinning him down to the bed by the shoulders. "Do you hear me?"

"You're being hysterical." He turned his head and coughed. 

"That doesn't mean I'm not right!"

"But you aren't," he growled and yanked my hands off him, flipping me around on the bed so that he could press me into the mattress with his weight. "If you think acting like a brat will get me to fuck you right now, you're wrong."

I swallowed tears and phlegm. "Do you want to be rid of me, then?" I asked, softly.

"No," he said. "I hate myself for saying this, but there's--God--" he laughed, glancing up at the ceiling. "I must be getting soft, but there's a part of me that only wants what's best for you. Call it fatherhood, whatever you will. But I don't want you to be miserable, and that's that." He reached out to caress my cheek with the backs of his fingers; a gesture so tender that it made me tremble, tremble the way his cheeks now trembled. "Not my Laura."

I took his hand and kissed his palm. "Your Laura will never leave you and you know it," I murmured. "There's no going back for me now. I've thought of it so many times, and all the alternatives horrify me." I would either become a dull, ordinary person and suppress my natural urges, slowly suffocate myself to death, or become an alcoholic, a drug addict, an asylum inmate. There was no future for me, not after what I'd gone through. "There's only one happy ending for me, and it's with you, Daddy."

He hugged me and sighed deep from his chest, rocking me upon the bed. "Laura, Laura. I just wish I could give you more. I wanted to give you the world, to show you everything."

"You have," I said quietly. "I've seen more in three years than most women ever will in a lifetime. I've just gone through mine faster than most."

"I suppose so," he said, lost in thought. 

"Make it special tonight, Daddy," I whispered into his shoulder. "I want to forget about it all. I just want to be swallowed by you, just like in my dream."

"I will," he murmured and kissed my mouth.

***

Torsten needed to escape into our play as much as I did: once more, we fell into the sort of sexual trance I knew would last for days. Even as his body was slowly dying, he was growing in the soul, becoming more spiritualised, transcending the limitations of his flesh. We made love more slowly, with an intense focus, stretching out caresses, tortures, orgasms as if we could stretch time itself, bend it and shape it, submit it to the service of our pleasure. It was strangely like those stories I had heard of Oriental monks approaching death, the ones who would spend more and more time in meditation, refusing food, spending more time in the spirit world than they did in the land of the living. And we did exactly the same: we gave away our possessions one by one and concentrated only on each other, on building ourselves a Heaven through the erotic, creating for ourselves a Paradise on earth.

When night fell, we no longer turned on the electrical lights in the living room unless we had to, surviving by candlelight and the light of the fireplace; he said it helped his aches and pains to be suspended in darkness and warmth. We had definitely become vampires, I told him, and he hugged me and laughed. 

Every night, I built us a roaring fire, making even that into a ritual of letting go, using old letters, old papers as kindling, burning a part of our past each night. It was strangely purifying to let go of all the luxuries, the excesses we had been swimming in for all of our lives--something this spoiled little brat could never have imagined. Soon, we only owned a few sets of clothes, a few books, only the minimum amount of furniture.

Yet he would not give up the piano. Each night, no matter how much pain he was in, he would force himself out of bed and play at least a few of Chopin's Nocturnes. And there I lay, on the rug in front of the fire, tears rolling down my face at the beauty of the music, watching our photographs being devoured by the flames: our smiles, touches, sexes disappearing as smoke into the night sky. These, we offered to the stars as sacrifice, sending our beauty out into the heavens, every single one of our pleasures remembered with fondness and pride, with no regrets.

And tonight, on the eve of murder, we burned the last of the photos: the ones that had been gracing our altar. We talked about each photo, of what we had felt when it had been taken, remembering what had brought about each yielding of the flesh to each extreme penetration, what we had thought of during each rapturous expression captured by the camera. We shared wine--only one glass each, so as not to dull our senses too much--and toasted our pleasures, celebrated our courage, our pagan heroism in the face of a society that had sought to suffocate our natures.

He wore his corset and his silk stockings; his lipstick left marks on his glass, his cigarettes. I wore nothing, not even the smallest dab of makeup, my curls a wild cloud around my shoulders. I smiled at his vanity--I had given up my lingerie, given up all my erotic costumes except the one I was saving for our last day, but he insisted the corset helped with his chest, his posture.

"And the stockings?"

He made the moue of a courtesan. "It's because they feel _fantastic,_ you little trollop. Perhaps I will go to my grave wearing these."

"But we agreed--"

"Yes, yes. I'm joking. I've packed the tuxedo," he smiled and nuzzled my face, then sighed wistfully. "I guess it's the last time I'll get to feel like a lady, then," he said, toasting the fire. "I'll drink to that."

And I loved him like a lady: I caressed his face, his chest, his genitals the way I would caress a woman, adoring his paleness by the flickering flames. I took him with my mouth, took his ass through his black lace panties until he was clawing at the rug and gasping at the ceiling, tears running down his cheeks.

"Laura," he groaned, a cry of desperation, of helplessness.

"I'm here," I said and lifted out my hand, letting him watch as I poured glycerine on it, letting the drops glisten upon my fingertips in the firelight. 

He took all of my hand that night, lying quiet, beautiful there on the rug, coming countless times before ejaculating. And I let him cry it all out, let him bid farewell to the woman in him, weeping myself as I watched her die in my arms. He curled up into a ball as he came for the last time, stroking his cock, his entire face smeared from kohl as he cast this part of his life, too, into the flames. I took his cock into my mouth and drank him in, lapped up each drop, as if by that I could keep Torsten the woman alive for a little longer, using my fingers to press the last spurts of her out onto my tongue. 

"She lives inside of me, now," I murmured as I pulled out my hand and laid it on his hip, laid down beside him and kissed the tears from his cheeks. "I've swallowed her. She's safe."

And he cried hysterically after, in the mood swing I recognised so well from my own anguish after at this act, from having to crash so suddenly into normality from such an exquisite, heavenly joy. It was no ordinary post-coital tristesse, it never was, but now he truly broke down, only the corset containing his sobs as he clung to me, the six-foot-three man curled up in the arms of a girl. The amounts of opiates he had been taking did not make it any easier: he had not taken any since the morning and was now crashing into withdrawal, shivering in my arms, his lacquered fingernails tapping a distress signal against my back.

I only left him to bring some warm water and towels; I washed him there in front of the fire, undressed him, gave him one of the last shots of morphine we had left. 

"Thank you," he groaned as he collapsed onto the floor, his limbs finally unfurling in relaxation as the drug rushed into his veins. "Come here," he slurred and pulled me into his arms. "You should have a shot yourself. Please. For my sake."

I calculated the doses. We had enough to last us until Sweden, I supposed, but only just. "But what if you get worse?"

"You wanted me to make it special for you tonight," he said, now so soft and languid from the drug he didn't sound irritable. "Dream with me, Laura. And bring the last of the hashish as well. It's in the elephant on the mantelpiece; I've been saving it up."

To hell with it. I took the morphine, took the last few crumbs of the hashish with him, and lay beside him. And I was glad I did: I could now feel each one of his kisses so acutely it sent words, thoughts, colours scattering all throughout my being; his love, his poetry being poured into me with each and every one of his touches. We were too lazy from the drug, he too soft to truly take me, but now we took each other's skin, took each other's psyches, so completely entwined in each other I did not know where Torsten ended and where Laura began. I had swallowed him, hadn't I? I giggled, and now he had swallowed me, too, echoing my giggles, laughing as freely as a child around me, I curling in his belly, somersaulting there.

He lifted me out of himself, laid me down on the rug, now stirring a little; I was surprised to see he was half-erect. "And now, it's time for me to truly swallow you up, my dear," he laughed from between my legs, giving my pussy the softest of licks. 

And each one of his licks curled deep inside my pussy, snaked into my womb, I thought, curling and swirling up my spine, shooting out of my breasts, vibrating out of my mouth as moans. I didn't even know if I had come, because the tremors, the contractions of my muscles were so subdued in the body, yet enhanced as they passed into my brain, all entwined into one endless, arabesquing tapestry of pleasure. He licked my body all over, as if he could see those lines of pleasure, those curlicues, those vines, licking each one of my veins, each curve and contour of my body, setting me afire. 

"Swallow me," I murmured, ruffling his hair, his unkempt hair, his beautiful, Decadent poet's hair; "eat me, Daddy; eat me up."

And he began to bite me, sending me howling, tossing upon the floor; he had never bitten me this violently before, bruising me, making my body red all over. And I adored him, fear but peeking out of the windows of my mind and then dying as I realised I no longer had to worry about anyone seeing those marks, about surviving past this week and the next. I was flowing into Paradise already, into the Paradise of my Heavenly Father's mouth; the sparks of my pain, the sparks of the fire now glimmering, dancing in his eyes. His cock was so soft he could only just insert it into my pussy, but he fucked me nevertheless, undulating into me sweetly; we rolled around on the floor, enjoying each sensation, stretching each caress, each tremor of the muscles into eternity.

But he wanted more, always more. He pulled my legs over his shoulders and ate my pussy, truly ate it, sucking on my folds, biting the lips until I was sobbing, tossing, twitching upon the floor. Where his cock had been soft, his fingers weren't; he took the glycerine and eased four fingers into my pussy. He had never been able to insert his entire hand there because I had found it too painful, too painful even for him to get pleasure out of my suffering, but now, with the analgesia brought on by the morphine, I knew he was going to do it. 

I had resisted before, had been so afraid, this the last part of me that hadn't completely surrendered unto him yet. I sobbed at first, yet I knew I had to yield, like this was some reversal of childbirth in its inevitability. Just like a child would have come out my body whether I wanted it or not--my greatest phobia before my sterilisation--Torsten must now enter my body, the wayward son I had gestated into fatherhood reaching his full, final spiritual maturity within my flesh. I would not leave this world without having taken him entire, and I breathed, breathed until I was sure my soul had left my body once more, had gone, disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling, into the shadows and lights painted by the dancing flames.

I only came to when he brushed his lips against my clitoris, kissing my mound reverently. "Good girl." He fluttered his fingertips a little.

"Is it in?" I slurred.

"Yes," he breathed in soft adoration, turning my thigh very gently so that he might gaze upon my sex better. "It's beautiful, my child. So beautiful, so soft and tender," he said, "like a--oh, Laura--like a _flower_ around my hand," he whispered, his breath trembling in awe, his eyes glimmering with tears.

"It hurts," I whispered, yet I did not want him to stop. "It hurts, Daddy."

"Then let me make it hurt less," he said and took my clitoris with his mouth.

He poured more glycerine onto his hand, never ceasing in his sucking of me as he began to take me with his hand. I could not even breathe, yet I realised I wasn't holding in my breath either. I was but lying there, completely still, my chest barely moving: if I drew in deeper breaths I hurt myself, and I did not want that. I was in a trance state, the mystic rapturous, barely breathing, in complete, ecstatic union with her God the Father. Thus, I let myself be slain the way I had slain him earlier that night, as still as a corpse around his hand. I wondered if he thought of that, and he must have, the way he lost himself in his tasting of me, his feeling of me, my silence drawing him into a complete, mystical stillness as well. 

Yet, as if terrified by what he had seen, he began to twist his hand, began to move it more, began to curl his fingers inside of me against the parts he knew gave me most pleasure. He reached for the back of my vagina behind the womb, pressing downwards with his fingers, his knuckles rubbing the front wall behind my clitoris: I cried out a little as I could feel myself trickling into his mouth.

"Good girl, good girl, _good girl,_ " he purred. "Is that piss or come?"

"C-come, I-I think," I croaked through chattering teeth. My entire body awoke to that caress, now spasming, and I was horrified I might have overdosed, that I was going into convulsions. 

Yet he pulled out his hand entirely, and the convulsions stopped: he pushed back in and fucked me more gently, only fingering me the same way he usually did when he wanted to make me come. "You know I wouldn't mind either," he said, kissing my belly. 

"I'm sorry, I can't--"

"You can't what? Piss or come?"

"I don't know!" I groaned, laughing, because that's all I could do, now, laugh, laugh as he kept on fucking me with his hand.

"Then let me decide for you," he laughed into my pussy. "Come," he said and sucked my clitoris between his teeth, whipping it with his tongue.

And at that, at the unbelievable pressure of his fingertips behind my womb, I had no choice but to come: I sprayed his mouth, his chin, he drinking me in just as I had drunk my fill of him, flowing into his belly, my very soul pressed into golden honey-wine by his ministrations, flooding him with my love. The opium elongated my convulsions so that I felt I was orgasming in slow motion; a slow wave retreating far onto the sea before it came crashing down on me, blinding me, making me arch off the rug over and over. I laughed hysterically between my howls, my groans as it went on and on and on, Torsten scooping it, cupping it out of me with perfect precision, the way only he knew how to time his thrusts, his finger-curls to my body's tiniest flutters. I soaked him, washed over him, dyed him deep with my love; still, I shuddered as I took his wrist and begged for him to take his hand out.

My teeth were still chattering as he hugged me, pulling both of us closer to the fire. "That was beautiful," he murmured against my forehead; "absolutely sublime."

"It's because _you_ are," I whispered, not having found my voice yet. "There never has been and never will be a lover like you, Torsten Barring," I sighed against his neck, "no matter what anyone says."

He lay quiet, at first surprised that I had used his name instead of 'Daddy,' but he understood the significance of it, pondering it in his heart. Finally, he looked into my eyes, solemn, his entire face trembling from emotion. "I'm so glad I found you," he sighed, and I could hear there were tears in his throat. "I never would have become that man otherwise." He kissed my eyelids, kissed my cheeks feverishly, now, his tears wetting my face. "Never, ever, had it not been for my wonderful Laura, the most amazing little girl in the world."

And I laughed in his arms, laughed and wept, shared in his tears of happiness, of release, of utter gladness at the beauty of this perfect night, so happy to be alive.


	11. Chapter 11

I was sitting on the patio, waiting for Torsten to get ready when a rustling noise alerted me: underneath one of the cypress trees lining the driveway, a cat was torturing a sparrow to death. A good omen for tonight, I thought; domestic cats rarely wandered this far from the city. I relished the way she swatted at the bird's wings, tearing them apart and stunning the bird with her kicks before finally gobbling it up. 

The sparrow had it easy: we weren't going to be nearly as merciful to Segert.

I squirmed a little. Torsten had insisted we should both be wearing the plugs--mercifully, he had taken the tails off them this time--and the cocaine we had just been snorting now made me restless, anxious to get going. It was almost five o'clock, and Stefan had told us his father always worked late on Thursdays, staying at the hospital long into the night. It had been then that I'd remembered that yes, it was on Thursdays that Segert had usually invited his doctor friends to visit the hospital, wasn't it? When he had showed me and the other patients off to them as his _creations,_ like some taxidermist creating an illusion of life from creatures he'd emptied on the inside. So it was only poetic justice that tonight, just like in horror stories, the mad scientist's creation should turn against her creator. 

But what if Segert _hadn't_ invited his colleagues in tonight? What if he should finish early tonight? What if we were late already?

"Torsten!"

"Coming," he said, turning a bottle of oil in his hands, smacking his lips as he screwed the cap back on.

"What's that for?"

"You'll find out. How do I look?"

I straightened his tie and wiped a dash of cocaine off his moustache. "Like a pervert."

"Perfect," he grinned and looked at me up and down, his gaze caressing my curves through my black satin dress. "I could say the same of you. Shall we?" He opened the car door for me.

"I thought you'd never ask," I purred at him as I slid into the red leather seat, my limbs buzzing from anticipation. Forget about Bonnie and Clyde, those miserable little rats: we were going to do this in style, turn murder into a work of art. Just as we had done with sex, just as we had done with all our excesses, our entire lives; even this we would turn into a scene worthy of a Renaissance master, painting it with bold, precise brushstrokes of shadows and gore.

And in the _chiaroscuro_ of the afternoon light, I adored Torsten, his long fingers steady upon the steering wheel, the way the sun reflected off the chrome of the car and threw its scattered lights through his irises. He turned to look at me now and then, he himself coiled tight from excitement, so full of life now that he knew we were to sup upon another's. My father the vampire, his very profile that of a dark prince with its refined, straight nose and cruel eyes, and underneath the sharp, thin lines of his moustache, his mouth a gleaming stripe of blood. I stroked his thigh and it was trembling underneath my touch; I skimmed my fingertips past his groin and he was half-erect, murmuring happily and spreading his legs in invitation.

"Keep your eyes on the road," I said, smiling, pulling my hand off his thigh. I reached into my handbag, past all the little instruments of death I had gathered up for the night, avoiding their sharp edges to take out my lipstick and my mirror. It wouldn't do to arrive at the hospital looking pale: I was to enter a whore, just as Torsten had decided to enter a faggot. He'd worn his lightest, most tightly cut suit, a pink tie and a pink buttonhole, had drenched himself in his sweetest, most floral of perfumes. I smelled of musk, of vanilla, of pussy, having daubed my own wetness on my pulse points after we had been playing with the plugs. I pulled my skirt up so that the tops of my stockings would show when I moved, pulled my neckline down low enough for a little cleavage to show. This way, I looked more indecent than a prostitute: on a sudden whim, I ruffled my hair a little, smudged my eyeliner a little, painted my lips over the edges a little so that I would look freshly fucked.

There. Now we were the paragons of everything Segert hated, his anathemata, his bêtes noires: the homosexual and the nymphomaniac, the deviant and the whore, about to show him exactly how powerful human desire was despite his attempts to annihilate it. We were lust, libido, greed, hatred made flesh, the psychiatrist's nightmare, all that swirled dark and black and sticky in the cesspits of the human subconscious.

Don't the psychiatrists say that the harder you try to repress something, the more power it gains over you, eventually swallowing you? 

Because that's what we were going to do. We were Nature, about to abort this child who had thought he could fight it, who had thought to rebel against his mother, to spay her, rape her.

I closed my eyes and snapped my handbag shut; I shuddered as I could still feel the stink of Segert's pubic hair in my nostrils, his sweat in my eyes, his purple, fat lips pressed against my cheek as he grunted on top of me.

"Drive faster," I sighed, swallowing the poison in my throat, concentrating my hatred, sharpening it like a knife.

"We're nearly there," Torsten said, throwing his cigarette out of the window. 

The hospital was situated on a high, rocky hill on the outskirts of the city like a penitentiary; we could see the bay from here, and the higher our car climbed up the winding road, the more suffocated I felt. How many had gone up this road and never returned? How many had returned mutilated, turned into drooling zombies? I saw Torsten glancing at me, worry in his eyes. Was he thinking of what he had gone through in prison? Because the hospital looked like one, and I wondered if Torsten's scar hurt him at all, whether he felt a tightness there at times the way I now felt a tightness in the scars on my own belly. I was glad we had worn the plugs--we both carried so many traumas from sex that we needed the plugs to keep us grounded, needed them to constantly remind us of pleasure, of how we were at each moment in charge of our own bodies, now, despite entering a zone that represented nothing but violations.

We parked inside the hospital grounds; I was shocked at the ease with which Torsten and I were let in by the guard. Torsten just told him he was a friend of Segert's, giving him the name of a doctor and flashing him a card of some kind. Probably something he had asked Stefan to steal for him, I thought, my heart pounding in my chest as I pulled my hat low so that the guard wouldn't recognise my face.

Once we had entered the hospital, it was I who led Torsten up to the wing that housed Segert's office. Segert was talking to someone by the sounds of it; we stood at the end of the corridor and waited. We ducked behind the wall as the door opened and the smoke of pipes and cigars billowed out into the hallway; I could hear German being spoken, could hear congratulations, even someone calling Segert a genius for some new leucotomy technique he had developed.

The guests said their goodbyes and left; only the fat nurse remained at the door. "Aren't you going home, Gustaf?"

"You know how the Germans are. They want punctuality, and this report will have to be in tomorrow before they leave. Otherwise I'll lose the deal. It's only a couple of more pages." 

"Night night, then," the nurse said and left.

We waited for long moments, a pair of cats about to pounce: only when everything was quiet did we finally make our entrance.

"Good evening, Doctor Segert," Torsten said as he strolled in through the door, flavoured cigarette in hand, swaying his hips like a chanteuse entering a nightclub. 

Segert looked up from his papers, blanching. "Who are you? _Diana?_ What are _you_ doing here?"

I slung myself over Segert's desk and spread my legs, planting the sharp heel of my shoe upon his chest. "He's my _father._ "

Segert stuttered, stared at my bare pussy, then looked up at Torsten. "Your father? What's the meaning of this?"

Torsten slinked his hips and swanned around Segert, putting a companionable arm around him. "It's all very simple, my dear fellow," he smiled. "We're here to kill you."

And with a quick, sharp punch to Segert's neck, Torsten stunned him. 

When Segert woke up, we had already tied him up, gagged him and brought him to the hospital morgue. He screamed pathetically as he realised where he was, as I fired up the incinerator. The great furnace in which they disposed of everything diseased and unwanted: tumours, amputated limbs, aborted fetuses. 

"It's only fitting, don't you think?" I grinned sweetly at Segert, the silver cuffs and the collar he had stolen from me now glittering around my limbs and neck once more. "Because let me tell you what you are, _Gustaf,_ " I said, kicking his temple so that his head bounced off the cold chamber doors he was propped up against. "You are nothing but a cancer, a canker, a pustule, and we're here to remove you."

Torsten lit another cigarette and squatted before Segert, stroking his own cock through his trousers. "She was very adamant about that. She told me you had cured three hundred homosexuals, nymphomaniacs, deviants. Is that right?"

Segert jerked his head; the noises he made were those of confusion, as if he didn't know why we were asking him that.

"He told me so himself," I said as I took out the hypodermic needles, counting them. Thirty. "He would never stop boasting about his operations, how by removing just a few pieces of tissue he could neutralise the danger a deviant posed to society. So many ovaries, testicles, frontal lobes--so many _human beings_ you've chucked down this oven, haven't you, Doctor Segert? So many personalities, so many artists, so many geniuses you've destroyed," I spat, "just because you were afraid of _pleasure._ "

But the bastard had the audacity to drown out my speech with his screaming: Torsten had dug out Segert's tiny, withered, diseased cock and balls and now displayed them for me. When he wouldn't stop screaming, Torsten broke his nose and finally, Segert had to stop screaming and start swallowing so that he wouldn't choke on his own blood.

"Now, if you would allow us to continue," Torsten said pleasantly. "As you may have gathered, the deviants from your past have caught up with you, and we have a score to settle." He patted Segert's genitals. "You see, I don't think we've been introduced properly." He pointed to himself, then me, enunciating clearly as if talking to someone feeble-minded. "I am Sodomy, and my daughter here is Whoredom. I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying."

I squatted next to them and held the needles up to Segert's face. "One needle for every ten women, every ten faggots, every ten negroes. It's much less than what you deserve for your _genius,_ I know," I grinned. 

And now, Segert's screams turned into howls and he started tossing, writhing in his bonds, trying to get up. I was glad we had tied him to the cold chamber doors; he kept slipping on the floor, sobbing, twisting, and we watched him for a while, letting him waste his energy. 

But after a while, Torsten got bored of this display. He hit Segert again to still him, then leaned back against the autopsy table, lighting a cigarette and gesturing to me. "Go ahead, my dear."

I lifted Segert's cock into my hand and poised the first of the needles at the tip of his cock. "Any last requests?"

"Please!" I could hear Segert screaming through his gag, and then something that sounded like "I have money. I can pay you anything you want, just spare me."

I pretended to consider, my voice mock-surprised. "Do we want money, Daddy?" I asked Torsten, who was now sprawling back and enjoying himself, smoking, masturbating. Torsten shook his head. I turned back to Segert and giggled; a high, broken giggle. "We don't want your money!" I jeered in his face, taunting him like a schoolgirl. "You see, we are mil-lio-naires. And we only want revenge," I said and stuck the needle into his urethra.

He screamed at first, screamed each time I stabbed a needle through his cock, his testicles, piercing them through like a pincushion; finally, he was in too much pain to even make noise, cold sweat running down his temples, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"He looks like he's about to pass out," Torsten said.

"You're right. I think he needs a little refreshment." I stuck the last needle in and squatted over Segert's head. It was hard to piss with the plug inside of me, but after a little squeezing, I managed it: he let out a delightful cry of horror as I drenched his face.

"There you are," Torsten laughed and pulled his own plug out of his ass, waltzing in front of Segert. "Ever seen homosexuals fuck? Hmm? Seen cocks go into asses? Because I think you might like them," he cooed, waving the dirty plug in front of Segert's face. "Men like you always hide a little faggot inside," he said and smeared Segert's moustache with his shit, dipping it into his nostrils, and as Segert retched in disgust, my pussy clenched in delight. "Do you want a _really_ good taste of my ass? Hmm?" Torsten said, now fingering himself roughly. "How about it?"

"I think you should show him, Daddy," I cooed, now realising why he had been taking the oil. 

I took a step back and brought my hand to my pussy, rapt with satanic awe as I watched Torsten squatting over Segert, letting out an explosive, liquid shit over his face, his chest, his pierced genitals. A laxative, that's what the oil had been: I should have been horrified, but I was trembling against the autopsy table, so close to orgasm, my pussy dripping down my thighs.

"Oh, my God, Daddy," I simpered, shaking my head, biting my lip at this amazing gift he had just given me. "Oh, my God."

And Torsten saw me, leering at me. "And now you get to see me fuck my daughter," he said gently, patting Segert's cheek.

Torsten took me right there on the table, fucked my pussy and my ass, showing Segert everything he had been missing out on, the beauty of our incest, the frenzied joys of utter insanity. I laughed into Torsten's ear and thought this sight was too good for Segert--we were being so kind to him, weren't we? We both came in but moments, too high from our sadism, too high from our triumph to last; Segert was no longer even sobbing as I shat Torsten's come onto his ugly, bloated face. His face looked better with the shit and the sperm, I thought; I wondered how his wife could've ever kissed a man so ugly. And now--to think of it!--we were liberating her to fuck all those men she wanted to fuck, liberating his son to be as perverse as he wanted, weren't we? We were benefiting so many people by doing this that it made me sick.

"And now, for the coup de grâce," Torsten said, lifting out a tourniquet and a surgical saw.

"I wouldn't call it that," I said and grinned as we bound Segert's genitals and pulled the needles out one by one. I didn't know where to put the needles at first, so after a moment of consideration, I decided to stick them into Segert's cheeks. "I would have stuck these in your eyes," I said with a pitying croon, tilting my head, "but we want you to see this."

And there, as he watched and howled in disbelief, we sawed off his cock, his pathetic little cock, making sure he would not bleed to death, would not pass out yet. As I roasted his cock over a Bunsen burner, Torsten took out a hip flask full of champagne, along with a tube of mustard. "Sex always makes us a little peckish, you see," he laughed.

We dusted our little sausage with cocaine and mustard and fed it to each other in tiny little slices, kissing after each bite. I had never tasted anything as delicious in my life; I worked the plug in and out of my ass as I swallowed the last of Segert's cock, rubbing my pussy, screaming my orgasm into Torsten's mouth. "Thank you, Daddy," I cooed, the sweetest, the sluttiest of little girls, my enemy's life now swirling warm in my belly.

Speaking of our enemy, he had lost consciousness once more, and it was such a shame. But we'd had our fun. Now, all that remained for us was to take him to pieces--it was faster when there were two of us working on the body. Segert gurgled a little as we hacked and sawed him into neat chunks, jerked a little as we pulled him apart. I could not tell when he finally died, but I do remember the way I held up his head, as proud as Salome with her prize, silhouetted against the incinerator's flames. 

_"Ring the bells and make cheer, the tyrant is slain,"_ I recited, and with sublime joy, I cast Segert's head into the flames. I cast aside all such men, all such monsters, our monstrosity so much greater than theirs. Nature had won; woman, faggot, deviant had triumphed over conformity and normalcy.

We cleaned up the place of fingerprints, turned off the incinerator, hosed down the floor and left. The guard asked us no questions, even winked at Torsten knowingly, thinking we had been fucking. 

We raced each other to the shower, fucked under the spray, screaming our lungs out, mimicking Segert's cries: his blood ran down our legs, ran down the drain as we fucked and fucked, celebrated, delirious from our victory.

"Did my little girl have a good time?" Torsten asked as he carried me to bed, every inch the strong hero who'd slain a dragon.

"I had the best night of my _entire life,_ Daddy," I giggled onto his lips, kicking my feet, squirming in ecstatic delight.


	12. Chapter 12

"Done?" I asked Torsten as he arrived at the harbour.

He lifted a pair of black leather gloves out of his pocket and threw them into the sea. "Done."

"I was starting to get a little worried," I said; our ship was just about to depart. 

"Acheron didn't take that long," Torsten said, lifting out his hand and miming a gunshot to the head. "It was over in seconds. It's only that some friends of his were arriving as I went down the stairs. It took me a while to... _persuade_ them to leave."

I rolled my eyes; I _thought_ I had been able to smell sperm on his breath. "You're hopeless."

"You would have done the exact same thing," he said, leering widely as the porter took our suitcases.

"Yes," I murmured as we ascended the staircase to the luxury deck; "yes, I would have." I was nearing menstruation and wanted to fuck the entire world; now that we had got away with yet another murder, I felt I could do anything, possess anyone I wanted. "To your right. The girl in green. What do you make of her?"

Torsten took in the family whose luggage was just being transferred into the suite next to ours; the father and the mother looked very respectable, very conservative, but the daughter--sixteen? Seventeen?--looked as if she had a rebellious streak. She wore a little more makeup than was proper for a woman under twenty, her chestnut hair coiffed as if she was going to a party, and she wore an outrageously huge corsage of gardenias over the chest of her tight, well-cut dress.

"Well, well," Torsten purred. "I can't tell if she's the daughter or his kept woman."

"The daughter. She only just showed up, too. Her parents almost turned their backs on her after they saw what she was wearing; must have been a surprise. They tried so very hard to not make a scene, but I heard every word."

"She's ripe for it," Torsten said and licked his lips.

And as if on cue, the girl turned in our direction and measured Torsten with her eyes from head to toe, devouring him with her gaze. Torsten acknowledged her with an elaborate court bow, twirling his handkerchief in his hand.

"Stop it," I said and kicked his ankle. "We've got plenty of time."

Torsten followed me into our suite, tipped the porter handsomely and smacked me on the ass. "Shall we go up on the deck to bid goodbye to the US of A? Or fuck?"

I stroked the front of his trousers. "Let's try for both."

The atmosphere on deck wasn't particularly festive; this was to be the ship's last journey as an ocean liner before it would be refitted to serve as a troop ship. A battle cruiser would follow us all across the Atlantic; it would probably take us over a week to zigzag past all the U-boats before we reached Southampton. Unless we were sunk before that, of course--I saw plenty of grim, wan faces on the deck. Now it wasn't just Torsten and I who were prepared to die; we were on a ship full of people who were all risking their lives with this voyage. Most probably didn't even want to leave for the nightmare that was Europe right now, but were forced to do so for some reason or another.

The most miserable faces I saw were in first class, pale underneath its gilded, painted ceilings; this was the end of an era of opulence and glamour, the war the final death blow to the European aristocracy. Even here, I saw mended dresses, moth-eaten fur coats, people pretending a little too hard to be all right when they weren't. 

Yet this denial, this defiance also led to a decline in manners, a devil-may-care attitude; gentlemen were less gentlemanly and ladies weren't as ladylike. I saw lustful glances being shot across the deck, people drunk in broad daylight, pupils dilated from drugs.

As the people packed tightly against the railing to watch the ship's departure, Torsten lifted up the skirt of my dress. I was wearing nothing underneath; I did not feel even the cool wind upon my buttocks, so closely was I pressed against the man behind me. I felt him shifting, stiffening, heard Torsten chuckling a little. 

Oh, my God. He was going to do this. He was going to do this in a crowd of a hundred people--

I felt Torsten's glove upon my buttocks, felt him undo the fly of the man behind me. I gripped the railing, and couldn't look behind myself: it would have ruined this, would have ruined it all. I shivered, shook as Torsten stroked the stranger's cock, rubbed it against my buttocks, then finally guided it inside my pussy. I only heard the man's soft gasp of breath; I could not tell if he was blond or dark, tall or short, thin or fat: he was but a cock, pure cock, pure sex and nothing more. A wonderful, full and hard cock now filling my pussy, gliding inside of me, he pressing up against me, the fabric of his suit rough against my buttocks. 

My pussy welcomed his cock, fluttering around it, pulsing around it: I daren't move my body, but I squeezed his cock with my muscles, drawing him further inside of me. He could barely move either, only rocked a little inside of me so as not to give us away, and I shook in frustration around him, my body yearning for longer thrusts, more friction, a deeper peneration.

The ship's engines hummed, rumbled underneath us, the vibrations of the ship transmitted into my own body, into the stranger's; from the corner of my eye, I could see Torsten's smile as he pretended to watch the retreating harbour. His eyes glittered pale underneath the shadow of his fedora; I could feel he was reaching back towards the man, perhaps caressing his back in encouragement.

Yet in but moments, it was over: the man stiffened behind me, a little noise escaping his throat as he spent himself inside of me, his sperm flooding my pussy. He disappeared as soon as he had arrived; swiftly, Torsten pulled down the skirt of my dress and wrapped his arm about my waist. I stood there, shivering, my knees quaking, my feet wobbling in my heels as the stranger's sperm ran down my thighs. I was coiled, bow-string tight from my frustration, vibrating, vibrating, panting as I leaned my head on Torsten's shoulder.

"You son of a bitch," I whispered.

He just smiled.

He had to hold me up as we walked down the stairs to our suite; I had to lean against the balustrade so as not to fall. My entire pelvis hurt so much, my pussy was so swollen I was staggering; I was sure people thought I was drunk. 

The moment we made it to the suite, Torsten threw me down on the floor and fucked me, fucked me so hard my face was rubbed raw from the carpet. I screamed into its red, plush weave, screamed insults at him, howled as his cock swam, sloshed in the still-warm sperm in my pussy, as I angled my hips up into his thrusts to get more, more, more. I came around him so violently he howled, snarled and told me that I'd almost snapped his cock off, and I delighted in that, at having caused him a little discomfort at least. I told him to shut up and keep on fucking me, and he did; my pussy was raw by the time he'd finished, but I had come three times by then, so full of sperm that I was slurping, leaking as I got up. 

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked and took me by the arm.

"The bathroom."

"Not yet," he said and guided me to squat over his face; he forced me to push out all the sperm from my pussy into his mouth, scooping it out with his fingers, milking my pussy through two fingers in my ass until I had given him each and every drop. 

Finally, I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the water as loudly as I could to drown out his coughing, the way he always had a fit after sex these days. I didn't want to think of him dying, didn't want to think of days like these coming to an end; I stood under the scalding hot shower and forced myself to sing. Yet I realised the only notes that came out of my mouth were of that hymn of Therese's, of soon being taken up to Heaven, of soon being taken home.

Torsten stepped into the shower with me and held me from behind, now soft and mellow from sexual contentment, from the opium linctus he had swallowed. "Let's save water," he murmured into my shoulder and washed my breasts, washed me between the legs; I moaned into his kiss and melted into his body, the water enclosing us in its embrace.

***

All throughout the voyage, we sought out chances to live out a few more adventures, feverish in our need. We scouted the restaurants, the pool, the casino, even the hallways for anyone willing: we met a few eager couples, the odd girl and had some pleasant experiences with them, but Torsten failed to seduce a single man. In fact, he'd barely avoided being locked up, the way he kept approaching the men more and more aggressively: more often than not, I had to intervene at the last minute so that we wouldn't have a fight on our hands.

But tonight, we weren't the ones fighting: it was late at night and we were catching a breath of fresh air on the deck when we heard two men arguing. They were behind the corner from us and hadn't seen us, trying not to raise their voices and failing. From what I could make out, one of the men had been paying the other for some favour or another, but not enough: he had only agreed to follow him on this trip because he had been promised a fortune, and now it turned out the other man couldn't pay even for his dinners.

"Our contract is over," the betrayed man bellowed, his voice low, deep, menacing. "You can go and shove a cucumber up your ass for all I care. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and take my chances at the casino."

The man stormed out, but he had to turn the corner and walk past our chairs to reach the door. And there, Torsten stopped him with his bamboo cane.

"Excuse me," Torsten drawled, straightening himself out with a flourish, eyeing the man from head to toe. The man was tall, dark, muscular with bushy eyebrows and pale eyes, as strong as a bull and just as fierce: Torsten's type exactly. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," Torsten purred. "You see--and this is a long story, but I will be brief--today, I made a vow to help out a person in need. To atone for old sins, shall we say. So, if there's anything I can do for you, my dear fellow, speak."

The man took Torsten in for a while, seeing _exactly_ what kind of man he was, and his full, voluptuous lips curled in a sneer. "A good Samaritan, are you?"

Torsten leaned on his cane and crossed his legs, tilting his head. "You could say that. Come, my dear fellow; join us. My name is Nicolas Morgonstierna, of Morgonstierna _Industries,_ " he said, and that made the penniless man perk up, "and this is my wife, Diana."

The man sat into the deck chair beside me, now very interested indeed. In this day and age, it was the industrialists who owned all the wealth; a once-noble name meant nothing these days if there wasn't a corporation behind it. "How do you do," he said pleasantly and kissed my hand. I was immediately given the impression of a man of lower class, of someone who had learned good manners and refinement while climbing the social ladder, and the good thing about that was that the people who were still climbing were always eager to please. He looked at me, then Torsten. "Randolph Aretino," he said.

I could barely suppress my laughter at his name--such an awkward mix of Anglo-Saxon and Italian that it had to be an alias. "After the Renaissance pornographer?" I said, raising my eyebrow.

"You are a learned woman, I see," he said, smirking at me. "A woman after my own heart."

"Aretino, Aretino... he loved both women and men, didn't he?" Torsten smirked and lit a cigarette, sitting smoothly beside him. "A man after my own heart."

"Please, call me Randy," he said, giving Torsten a long look, signalling that he had got the hint immediately.

"Randy," I laughed, no longer holding back my amusement. "You're a gigolo," I said, bluntly, even if this annoyed Torsten a little, Torsten having thought he could expose him first.

"I guess you could say that," Randy said and leaned back, spreading his hands in an 'I cannot help it' gesture. His smile was charming, boyish even if he must have already entered his forties: even if I sensed a little danger, I liked him immediately.

"And you're out of cash," Torsten said, never taking his cigarette from his mouth as he took out his wallet. He threw a big wad of notes into Randy's lap, right over his crotch. "How's that for a start?"

Randy pretended to be calm as he collected the notes, but his eyes were just a little too wide, betraying his astonishment. No wonder; a man could live with that sort of money for months.

He looked up, immediately a little suspicious. "You're perverts, aren't you?" he said quietly, looking at me, then at Torsten with a neutral look upon his face. "You want the _special_ stuff."

Damn and blast. He was going to be no fun if he didn't enjoy this; perhaps we had miscalculated. I glanced at Torsten, whose mouth twitched a little in irritation. "And what if we do?" he said, tossing his cigarette into the sea.

Randy smiled; his teeth glinted white in the moonlight. "Oh, it's just that I haven't been able to _indulge_ in a while," he said, and swiftly, calmly, easily took Torsten by the throat, straddling him in his deck chair, grinning in his face. "If this is the kind of thing you're looking for," he said sweetly, tilting his head a little. "Is it?"

I shot up in my chair, terrified, yet aroused at the same time by his violence, by the perfect way in which he assumed control. Everything about him told me he was exactly what we had been looking for: someone who could dominate us both. 

Torsten's eyes were bulging out of his head; he must have been as hard as rock underneath Randy. "Yes," he croaked.

Randy threw back his head and laughed; he let go and got up, now companionable, holding his hand out to Torsten. "It's a deal."

Torsten coughed into his handkerchief while shaking Randy's hand. "One more thing," Torsten managed to rasp out--I was right, he was sporting an erection. "The little lady's in charge. She'll tell you what to do."

"Well!" Randy smiled, lighting a cigarette of his own. "I shall look forward to it."

We took Randy to the restaurant with us. It turned out he did not, in fact, have a penny to his name. The man who had hired his services for the trip had not only bought him his ticket but had also paid for his clothes, his grooming kit, everything he carried with him. He wasn't happy to go to Europe, especially as his mother had been Jewish, he told us. I wondered if he was spinning us a tale, trying to elicit our sympathy, and all the while he reminded me of Acheron somehow. It was not just his heavy build or his profession, but he was one of those men who were born hustlers, no matter which class they came from, always living off other people. Not all that different from Torsten, I thought, had Torsten been born with a spine, had he had an inch of masculinity in him. 

But then, I was lost in the absurd, hilarious vision of Torsten as a professional dominant with men--that would never happen!--and nearly choked on my wine. He might have been the perfect, most skilled and most commanding of lovers with women, but with men? He'd immediately be buried under a pile of grunting, bearlike thugs, screaming his head off, his stockings torn.

"Share it with us," Torsten said, raising his eyebrow.

"Later," I said and turned to Randy. "Would you like to dance?"

This was another way for me to keep Torsten on his toes: if I was to tell Randy what to do, I was most definitely going to keep the details secret from Torsten. I knew how Torsten loved anticipation, knew how he loved danger, not being sure of what another man would force him to do: I told Randy of this, of the extreme forms of humiliation Torsten so enjoyed when he was taken by men. I also told Randy Torsten had been in prison, and he understood this immediately: he said he'd heard the same story before and knew how to handle such men, knew how to turn those experiences to his advantage and create something new, something pleasurable from them.

"And women?"

"Well," he said, moving his hips and his abdomen into my curves with what seemed like genuine pleasure. "It depends. Do you want the gentleman or the brute?"

"The gentleman brute," I said.

He laughed; I adored the strong tendons of his neck, the beginnings of stubble upon his jaw. "You're not the first one to ask for that, either."

So I told him of our psychological games, our rituals, the dirty talk, all the means through which we achieved ultimate surrender. This, I knew, Torsten would need tonight, would need to articulate in order to reclaim his true self as a man who loved other men.

Yet, when the time came for me to tell Randy of our more extreme fetishes, I hesitated a little. Nevertheless, I knew this was going to be essential to the experience: Torsten and I had agreed to share everything with others, now, and there were only a few things he hadn't done with other men yet. And since this was going to be one of the last, if not _the_ last chance for him to enjoy another man, it had to be done right. I had thought of a few ways in which we could satisfy Torsten's desires, a few specific acts and positions that would do the trick; when I described them to Randy, he thought of it for a while, but didn't even pretend to be shocked.

"And the two of you would be on the receiving end?" he said.

I nodded. "Absolutely. It all hinges on that, you see. Neither of us will get any pleasure from it otherwise."

"Then I see no problem with it," he said diplomatically. "I must confess I'm rather looking forward to it, in fact," he purred, rubbing his erection against my hip. "As I'm sure you can tell."

"Mm-hmm," I purred right back at him. "I think it's time we retreated to our suite, don't you?"

"I've got to get ready first. Give me the number of your suite, and I will be there in an hour or so."

"All right," I said.

***

In my gut, I didn't trust him. Perhaps this was because of Acheron; yet, I didn't care. The same way I had defied abuse at the public toilet, I now defied anything Randy might do to us; perhaps this was what Freud had meant about self-destructive tendencies, about the death-drive. Perhaps it was the complex interplay of Eros and Thanatos--oh, but listen to yourself, Laura; you were being far too complicated about a simple fuck.

Therefore, as Torsten and I refreshed ourselves with stimulant drugs, I cast all such pretentious philosophical debates aside. I wanted to be fucked, wanted to be turned inside out just as much as Torsten did; wanted to see Torsten get fucked by a man, wanted to be manhandled by two men just like in the old days. Tomorrow would be our anniversary; tomorrow I would have Torsten all to myself, but tonight, I wanted something wilder, more expansive, in order to make tomorrow's celebrations all the more intimate.

"Did you tell him about my illness?" Torsten asked as I changed into my négligée, as he slipped into his silk dressing gown with nothing but his Arab strap underneath. 

"I did. I told him to be careful with your throat and your chest. But I also told him you liked it rough," I said, powdering my cheeks.

He lifted my chin and looked into my eyes, kissing me softly upon the lips. "Thank you."

I rose from my chair and hugged him tight. "It's the least I could do." It was so strange that even in this, I had to be the one who guided our actions: I did what I did because I wanted good things for us, happy things, pleasurable things. But this also made me crave submission, a complete surrender even more, and I knew Randy could give that to us. "If anything should happen, know that I love you, Daddy."

He kissed my hair. "It's funny. I'm not so sure about him myself. But what can he do? We have enough money in the bank to get to Sweden even if he should knock us out and rob us."

"Or perhaps we're just being paranoid," I said. The stimulants didn't help with that; I shivered a little. "Listen to us. We were supposed to be bold and adventurous, devouring life, sucking out all its juices, and here we are, _hesitating._ "

"It'll be fine," he said, but before he could say anything more, there was a knock on the door.

I shouldn't have been so worried. At least that night, Randy turned out to be the most considerate, skilled, attentive of lovers, worthy of the power we laid in his hands. He had been doing this sort of thing for years, he told us, and he knew how to be a gentleman about it. He and Torsten agreed that with men, unless they had terrible anxieties about their tendencies, sex was usually easy and simple, but with women and couples, there were always tremendous tensions involved: excessive guilt, morbid jealousies, painful insecurities. That's when I chimed in and cursed such things to the lowest of hells: such hypocrisies always got in the way of women being able to enjoy themselves.

"And that's what makes Diana and I different," Torsten sighed happily and kissed my head. "It's like the Greek ideal of the love between man and youth. No nagging, no jealousy, no screaming children in the way; just a simple understanding between lover and beloved."

"Now you're making _me_ jealous," Randy murmured, gazing at me hungrily.

I laughed and kissed his cheek. "Tonight, you won't have to be."

Thus, in such a manner we sat there and chatted for a while, smoking, drinking, when Randy suddenly looked at Torsten and patted his thigh.

"Come here."

And oh, the way Torsten quivered at that! He sat in Randy's lap in the armchair beside the window; I lay on the bed beside them, moving a little so that I could see them better. Randy began his seduction with such exquisite tenderness that it hypnotised us both, kissing Torsten deeply, passionately, kneading his back and his hips, not even touching his cock even if it was pointing straight up between their bellies. 

"Your wife told me you were a naughty little boy," Randy purred, his voice so deep, so refined it pooled warm in my womb, made Torsten sigh in his embrace. "Is that true?"

"Perhaps," Torsten said, kissing Randy's full, sensuous lips as if he couldn't get enough of him, rocking in his lap. 

Randy slid Torsten's dressing gown off and pressed at his shoulders. "Down."

Torsten loved this, loved showing his obedience with the fluid, elegant way he slid down onto the floor between Randy's legs. He undid Randy's trousers and took out his cock, undulating his hips and his ass, showing off to us both. As formidable as Randy's cock was, I was lost watching Torsten, the pink slit of his ass, the raised red bud of his anus, again like a little pussy between a woman's pale, wide hips. So many times, I had adored him like this, but now each time might be the last: I bit my lip and rubbed my clitoris, determined to commit this sight to memory. Torsten, Torsten the androgyne with his pretty little pussy, reaching out to suck another man's cock: there were few things in the world as beautiful as this.

Yet Randy stopped Torsten with a hand on his shoulder and tutted. "Not so fast. You're going to have to tell me what you like," he said, stroking Torsten's cheek with his fingertips. "And what you want me to do to you. Do you understand?"

Torsten let out a little noise at that; this was exactly what I had told Randy to do, knowing how much both Torsten and I loved being forced to not only admitting but _articulating_ these things, these desires the world saw as shameful in us. Rituals such as these lifted those sins out into the light and celebrated them, turned them into things of beauty, into laurels to crown us with. 

Torsten's eyes gleamed from delight, their corners crinkled from pleasure as he uttered the words both Randy and I so wanted to hear. "I want to suck your cock," he pronounced perfectly, sweetly, passionately.

"Is that so?" Randy asked, his chuckle making my pussy clench in delight. "Do you like sucking men's cocks, Nicky?"

Torsten moaned; no one had ever called him that, such an insulting, effeminate diminuitive it made the hair on his arms stand on end. "Yes," he purred with relish, caressing Randy's shaft, measuring it with his hand. "I love sucking big, fat cocks, just like this."

Randy sunk his fingers into Torsten's hair and grinned. "Talk's cheap, faggot. Prove it."

Now, Torsten moaned even louder, but that moan died as he closed his mouth around Randy's cock, sucking on it hungrily. He had not been fucked by a man since prison, as far as I knew; he had only been sucking a few cocks now and then, and was more than ready to be taken again. And now that he had found the right man for the job, Torsten worshipped Randy's cock, the way I always worshipped his: I took great delight in observing how he used some of my own tricks to arouse Randy, the way he used a great amount of spit to slicken up Randy's cock so that he could give it a smooth, glorious slide. Very few people knew about that trick; Randy groaned in surprise and delight, his legs falling completely open as he relaxed and let Torsten pleasure him with his mouth.

I wanted a closer look, so I stripped and moved to stand beside the chair, leaning over it so that my breasts brushed across Randy's head. "Do you like the way my husband sucks your cock?" I asked sweetly, exactly because I knew what those words did to Torsten. "He's such a hopeless little slut sometimes."

Randy grinned and looked up, pinching both of my nipples until I yelped. "He said the same of you, as a matter of fact. Told me you liked all kinds of dirty things, too," he panted, and I didn't know whether to look at his face or at the glorious sight of his thick, gleaming red cock sinking into Torsten's mouth.

I leaned down so that I could kiss Randy, breathe in his sighs at Torsten's ministrations, so that I might suck the lovely fullness of his lower lip. "I want to see you fuck him," I said, hissing as he squeezed my nipples again.

"I think I'll cuckold him first," Randy said and pulled me into his arms with such force that I was stumbling, yelping. "He told me you had a tight little pussy and an even tighter little ass," he purred and nuzzled my face.

"She does," Torsten said, standing up behind me, rubbing his erection against my back. "And I, in turn, would love to watch you fuck both."

"All in good time," Randy laughed. "Undress me."

Torsten spent more time sucking Randy's cock than he did undressing him; I had to do most of the work. But by the time I reached Randy's ass--a well-muscled, athlete's ass at that--it was Torsten who was jealous at the noises I got out of Randy. I had told Randy of our fetish for shaven genitals, and that's what he must have been doing before he arrived: his ass was smooth and still wet from when he'd washed it. Yet he had not fingered his ass clean the way Torsten and I did whenever we played with others, and I was thrilled by that: there was a wonderfully rich, musty taste lingering between the folds, an earthy taste that made me shiver in delight. Ass, ass, dirty ass: perhaps he had left himself unrinsed exactly because of what I had told him of our _special stuff_. Again, I had to slip my hand to my pussy, so aroused was I by his boldness.

But Randy had noticed I was touching myself. "None of that." He turned around and lifted me up, smacking me on the ass. "Get on the bed, you naughty little minx," he laughed. He climbed in next to me--we had what was probably the biggest bed on the entire ship, a huge four-poster, complete with cream and gold canopies. When Torsten got up, Randy looked at him, then me. "What do you want me to do with him?"

I piled up some pillows behind my shoulders and spread my legs, eyeing Torsten like a queen toying with a serf. "Have him kneel on the bed, I should think," I said. "So he can watch."

Torsten did as he was told, and Randy didn't waste this opportunity to tease him a little: he arranged Torsten to kneel against one of the bedposts, kissing him hungrily, tightening the straps around his cock and his balls.

"Should I tie him up?" Randy asked me over his shoulder, as if Torsten wasn't there.

"Nu-uh," I said. "He might come in useful."

Torsten flashed an indignant glare at me; I loved that. Randy turned back to him and took him by the wrists, gesturing for him to cross them behind his back. "And keep them there. Don't move until I tell you to, or I'm not going to fuck you," he said pleasantly.

And this was far more arousing than had he tied Torsten up: I could hear Torsten whimpering a little, his chest heaving as he knelt at the foot of the bed, his cock hard and purpling against his belly, adoring being so tortured.

"And you," Randy said as he crawled over me, kissing his way across my belly and my breasts, grinning in delight, "you do the same." He took my wrists and pinned them onto the pillows as he kissed me, kissed me with such skill and such passion that I moaned into his kiss, wrapping my legs around his waist, trying to rub my pussy against his cock. "Keep them there," he told me as he let go of my wrists, so that he could lean against the mattress with one hand, guiding his cock inside of me with the other. 

So few men had ever taken my pussy: I cried out as he entered me faster than Torsten usually did, especially as he wasn't poorly endowed either. "Oh--"

"My, but you're tight," Randy laughed, and I drew in a shuddering breath as he slowed down, controlled his hips, rolled them a little. "I haven't had a girl in a while, you see," he said, "so I'm going to enjoy myself; going take my time. I don't think you'll mind, will you?"

"No," I laughed onto his lips, breathed deeper to allow him higher inside of me, breathed and breathed as my flesh relaxed around him, opening for him. Oh, but this was the strangest, freshest of sensations: another male lover whose touch I enjoyed, whose cock now filled me with pleasure. I tried so very hard not to cry as I realised most men who had entered my pussy had done so without my permission; I swallowed a sob at the sheer joy of now being able to accept a man in this way through my own choice, and finally without the fear of pregnancy. Yes, this was a rare delight, rare and sweet; a male lover skilled, fulfilling, giving me such exquisite delight from his very first strokes inside of me. 

Thus, with my father's blessings, he adoring us as he knelt beside us, I accepted this friendly stranger into my body. With my kisses, I beckoned Randy deeper, caressing him with my legs as I wasn't allowed to move my hands; with my pussy, I welcomed him, massaged him, enjoying the feel of his skin against mine, his fresh sweat filling my nostrils. With little noises, I encouraged him, little laughs as he undulated into me and penetrated me deep, so deep, so soon; I unfurling wet and warm around him, so happy, relaxed.

And Randy adored me in turn, his eyes twinkling with wicked delight: I thought of what Torsten had told me of how rare it was to encounter a woman who truly enjoyed sex, and I wondered if this was what Randy was now thinking of, too. He spent long moments squeezing, caressing my breasts, drinking my kisses from my mouth, pressing his body into my softness; as if with his skin he could drink in my very femininity into himself, take his fill of my flesh with every inch of his body and not just his cock. 

But oh, what a divine cock it was: with each stroke, my pussy grew hungrier around it, my womb yearning for more blows, and I whimpered a little underneath him, begging for more. Randy just pulled back a little so that he might spread my legs and watch my pussy as he was fucking me, groaning through his teeth as he watched his cock sliding in and out of me, clutched by my flesh as he drew backwards. 

"God. It's like a child's," he sighed in awe-filled delight, "so tiny, so soft, so bare, oh, God."

"It's because she _is_ a child," Torsten purred, "technically speaking."

"Hmm?" Randy kept staring at my pussy, staring at his cock, his breathing hitching in his chest as he lost himself in my flesh.

"It's true," I said and squeezed my pussy around him, warm and drunk from pleasure. "I won't turn eighteen for a week. And I'm afraid we lied about being man and wife, too," I said, sighing happily as I sunk into the mattress with his thrusts.

The bed creaked a little as Torsten edged closer, moving upon his knees and leaning in to see better. "You see, Randy, she's my _daughter,_ " he purred, his own cock swaying in pleasure as he said those words, a string of his arousal lashing around his shaft.

Randy threw back his head and laughed in disbelief, not protesting as Torsten greeted him with a kiss. "Perverts. I knew it. From the moment I saw you, you filthy bastards."

"Are you complaining?" I cooed, in my sweetest little girl's voice. Now, I had woken up a little, and now that we had told him the truth, I wanted to see if this voice worked on Randy as well as it worked on Torsten, pouring sweet sin into his ears. "Don't you like my little baby pussy?" I asked, in a mockery of a child who'd been scorned. 

"God!" Randy howled at that and let go of my legs, bracing himself on his hands, trembling inside of me. 

"Do you like it when I say that?" I teased him, stroking his back with my toes, again breathing deep, deep so that his cock would reach the very bottom of my pussy, my sugar pussy. "Like fucking my tiny little girl's pussy, you naughty man?" I crooned.

"Yes," Randy groaned, taking me by the hair and devouring my mouth, now truly beginning to pound into me. I cried out onto his lips, gasping for air between his kisses as he took me; this was so different from Torsten, so fast and wild and animal, Randy's fucking driven more by instinct than the intelligence that always guided Torsten's sexuality. Randy was so much heavier than Torsten, probably twice as heavy as he was, throwing me into the bed so that my spine was opened; oh, I adored him. Swiftly, easily he wrapped my legs around his shoulders as he drove into me over and over; I howled underneath him, loving the friction of his cock, but I needed to touch my clitoris, needed to.

"Please, please, please let me come," I shouted, my pussy fluttering around him, my womb rippling, yet each and every time my orgasm could have begun, Randy retreated or shoved in so hard the chain of tremors was interrupted. He fucked me so greedily, to his own rhythm, taking, not listening out for my reactions, and I knew he did so deliberately, wresting control from me. A revenge for my having teased him, perhaps; now, he was driving me insane. "Please, Randy."

"How do you come?" he asked and rested his weight on top of me, anchoring me down with it, staying completely still deep inside of me. He stroked my wrists, running his fingertips down the sensitive flesh of my forearms, making me jerk underneath him. And oh, the way he smiled as my pussy pulsed around his cock, the way my very nervous system panicked as he pressed against my womb with such force, my flesh palpitating around him. "How does this little girl's pussy come?" he smirked. "Hmm?"

"It'll come if you let me rub it," I gasped, still in a child's voice to spite him, and a shiver went through me as I said such a thing out loud, articulated my exact preferences in a way no good girl ever should. "Or if you let me ride my hands."

"The first, I think, then," he said, pulling back and rolling his hips. "I want to see this little pussy, you see," he grinned, "and want to see your face as you come. I insist."

I bit my lip, maintaining the girl's demeanour even as each one of his undulations struck sparks of heat from my womb, sending my entire body shivering. "Can I please now rub my pussy?" I asked him, like I was begging for a sweet dessert.

"Yes, my child," he said, kissing my mouth, grinning mischievously. "If you tell me how my cock feels inside your pussy."

I shuddered in near-orgasm as he said that, as he punctuated his command by burying himself in me up to his balls, the head of his cock rubbing the very back of my vagina with such wonderful pressure, the entire weight of his body behind it. _Bastard,_ I wanted to call him, but I didn't. "It feels so good," I moaned instead and started to stroke my clitoris, "just like that, when you really press in deep and slow, like that, oh, just like that."

"Mm-hmm?" he said, now controlling his movements with absolute precision, focusing on but my reactions, the same flash of ownership, of gratification Torsten always had in his eyes when he could control my pleasure in such a fashion. "What else do you like about my cock?"

"It's so big," I said, now with my eyes open, looking at Torsten instead of Randy, relishing the way Torsten trembled at his humiliation, the way his cock jerked in jealous delight. "Feels so good in my pussy when you fuck it with a big cock like that," I crooned, the exact ritual words both men wanted to hear, the exact words that drove me higher and higher towards the peak.

"Yeah?" Randy said, blowing stray locks of hair from his face, the firm muscles of his belly rippling as he paced his thrusts, holding my legs either side of his hips. 

"Yeah," I moaned as I kept on stroking my pussy, biting my lip in a mockery of coyness. "So good. Please, Randy, more."

"Louder."

"Please, fuck me!" I cried, staring straight into his eyes, again forcing myself towards orgasm with deep breaths. "Please, please, just like that, please don't stop, oh, God--"

"Are you going to come?" 

"Yes, yes, God, yes, _please_ \--" and now my pussy was so wet each and every one of his thrusts was a noisy slap, so wet I was flowing down to my asshole, my clitoris so swollen, my entire vulva pulsing underneath my hand. "Keep doing that, exactly that," I moaned and he did, he did; that wonderful, long drag, that wonderful heaviness of his body, the ease with which he threw his entire mass into his thrusts, ramming into my womb so gloriously, his flesh become but power, but fuck.

"Come," he barked, and slapped my cheek--I could not even scream from my shock. Torsten must have taught him this, from the way he now laughed behind Randy, oh, the _bastard!_

"Come!" Randy shouted again, slapping my other cheek, fucking me so hard his thrusts pushed me back on the bed, sent me ululating, the sheets being pulled off the bed as he plowed into me.

My hand flew on my pussy and I arched underneath him, screaming out my orgasm as he pounded it out of my body, I not having any choice whatsoever. I had been climbing up towards climax at my own speed, but now he slammed into me with such force, his voice, his hands so full of command I was thrust into full convulsions as swiftly as if this had been an anal orgasm. I screamed and screamed again as he slapped my cheeks, my breasts, my belly, beating each tremor out of me with his strong, beautiful, heavy hands.

"Please," I twisted underneath him, pulling his hands to my mouth and kissing them, sobbing, my pussy pulsing and fluttering and clenching in aftershocks around his cock.

"Please, what?" he laughed and kissed me, taking hold of my wrists once more.

"That was--" I gasped. "That was _wonderful._ "

Again, he rolled his hips, smiling with genuine delight, the perfect row of his teeth flashing white in the warm yellow light. "I aim to please."

"You did," I laughed, panting into his kiss. "Very much so."

"I also heard something about you liking it up the ass?" he said playfully and flipped me onto my stomach. His cock slipped out and he rubbed it between my buttocks, again pinning me down with his weight, chuckling at my squirming. "And you really do seem to like being held down," he said. "Don't think I'm not going to be rough with you, girl; I've only just been warming up."

"She _loves_ it in the ass," Torsten purred, now too tired to kneel; he was sitting cross-legged beside us, his hands still clasped behind his back. He peeked down to nuzzle my face. "Don't you, my child? Tell the nice gentleman what you like."

"I love being fucked in the ass," I said, but looked at Torsten as I said it, shivering, offering this confession to him, to my Daddy, to his pleasure, adoring the way his mouth twitched at my words. My liberation belonged to him, this wonderful, vertignious joy I felt at again being able to put my desire, my pleasure into words. Randy would never know how important this was to me, would never know how they had tried to take my pleasure, my libido, my sexual will away from me with electric shocks and injections, how triumphant I felt each time I could reclaim my body and my soul like this.

Torsten knew; the tenderness in his eyes spoke more than words--but I felt Randy was waiting for something more, a cue to continue. I rolled my hips, knowing the way Torsten loved the way my buttocks undulated around his cock whenever he was frotting in my cleft in this manner. "I love the way a cock feels in my ass," I murmured, my pussy, my heart rushing full of joy and pride at my abandon, Laura the child speaking in simple facts of sensation. "It hurts so good, and then it feels so good, so good."

"I can see that," Randy laughed as he pushed a finger inside of my ass and then pulled it out, realising I had prepared myself. "Do you want my cock in there?"

"Yes," I said, now lifting my ass into the air and clasping my buttocks, pulling them apart the way Torsten had taught me to, even pushing two fingers into my ass from either side to spread it open. It hurt, but I loved this, loved being able to shock him with the gape Torsten and I so loved, the shocking sight of pleasure having hollowed one's body open wide. "I'm ready. Can't you see?"

"We can see you're a little _slut,_ " Torsten hissed and spat on my ass, making me shriek into the pillows. 

"Please!" I cried.

Randy slapped Torsten on the cheek. "You wait your turn." 

Torsten breathed heavily from that, resting his head on the small of my back; I knew what he was after. "I'm at your service," he purred at Randy and opened his mouth.

"God!" Randy groaned, his control snapping completely at Torsten's audacity; he pushed his cock into Torsten's mouth and choked him with it. "Suck it, then, you miserable old fag. Suck that cock," he growled. "Slicken it up so I can fuck your daughter's ass, fuck, yes, that's it, that's it," he snarled, grinding Torsten's head into my ass. "Use your hands. Hold her open for me."

"With pleasure," Torsten rasped, his throat rough from fucking, his voice thick from desire. He pulled off, spitting on my ass again. "Ever fucked a girl in the ass?"

"No, as a matter of fact," Randy laughed as he started to push inside, deliberately brutal, making me clutch at the sheets as I tensed against my will. " _God,_ but that's tight."

"Just fuck her like a boy," Torsten said, spitting on Randy's cock, his spit sluicing down onto my pussy, both men ignoring my moans. "Use her like a boy, hard and fast."

Randy shoved in deeper and I fell silent from shock, his penetration so fast it made me black out for a second, two. All I could hear were his grunts and Torsten's infuriating, purring laughter. I shook, barely able to move underneath Randy's thrusts, twisting my hands underneath myself so that I could touch my pussy, to somehow ameliorate the pain. And that did the trick, as it always did: the moment I reached my clitoris, the moment I could give it a good rub, the pain started to melt, thaw, liquify into pleasure. 

And it was as liquid pleasure that I now undulated, flowed in moans against the pillows and the sheets, against Randy's body, gloriously whorish; I pressed back against him so as to take him truly deep inside of my body, so that he could feel how full and how wet my pussy was against his balls.

"Oh, so you like that, is that it?" Randy taunted me, digging his fingers into my hips, shifting upon the bed to find a good angle to thrust from. 

"Yes," I moaned out of spite, my head now upside down, and from between my legs, I could see I was dripping down in strings, flowing down his balls. "I love it when you fuck me in the ass," I hissed, our dirty talk now a scourge to drive us faster, faster, another ritual oblation to raise the flames higher, higher. "Please, please--I'm going to come again--"

But Randy ignored me, choosing to grind Torsten's head into the small of my back instead. "This is how I'm going to fuck you," he crooned at Torsten and rolled his hips to punctuate his words, "fuck your little faggot ass," relishing the way Torsten whimpered at his words. "Going to push all of this--" he pulled back so that only the head of his cock was nestled inside my ass, demonstrating its no doubt gleaming length to Torsten, "so deep in your ass you'll scream," and he shoved inside with such brutality I howled.

"Please do," Torsten hissed, his voice thick with phlegm, greed. 

"Rub her pussy, and I will," Randy said. "Make her come around my cock."

I would have said something, but now Randy snatched my wrists and pulled them behind my back, beginning a deep, slow fuck with such strength and ease it made me feel like a doll in his hands. Just what I had wanted, to be so completely taken, used by a man stronger than Torsten, but oh, God, Torsten. Now, he was slapping my pussy, smacking it rapidly, violently with his hand, vicious, cruel as he hissed into my ear. "Such a wet little pussy," he purred, licking my ear, biting it. "Such a wet little slut when you've got a big cock up your ass, aren't you? Hmm?"

"Yes," I cried, but then my voice turned into but a hoarse scream: my vision went white, each one of Randy's thrusts a huge shock through my body, an earthquake, my internal organs juddering from the force of his blows. I was terrified, feared he might kill me, might tear something in me, but the way Torsten now pinched my clitoris and rubbed it, I had no choice but to come despite my terror. Torsten, Torsten, my awful, my beautiful Devil forcing me to come despite everything, dragging my orgasm out of the depths of my body with his perfect, perfect fingers, his slippery, wet, disgusting words slithering into my ear.

"That's it, that's it; that's how Daddy's little pissy pussy comes," Torsten crooned, and even through the din of my orgasm, I realised I was spraying his hand, hearing my own howls from somewhere far away, my pussy spasming violently underneath his hand.

Randy made a noise of astonishment--from what Torsten had said, he must have thought I was pissing, but he kept on going, his shock having pushed him too far to stop now. I could not stop either; my entire body came around him, each muscle, each cell, drawing him into my orgasm, and soon enough, he was bellowing into the canopies, grunting so low from his belly I feared someone would come and interrupt us. He remained kneeling, huffing, growling, thrusting in and out of me until his sperm dribbled out over my pussy, Torsten hissing in delight as he played with it, rubbing it all over my vulva. 

"God!" Randy groaned, and as I turned my head to see, Torsten was licking Randy's come from his palm, showing off to him, making Randy shudder in aftershocks at the sight. "The two of you are impossible," Randy moaned as he slipped out of me, collapsing onto the bed. "A pair of beasts; animals."

"Thank you," Torsten purred, sucking his fingers, his lips gleaming with sperm.


	13. Chapter 13

I curled up next to Randy and nuzzled his broad chest, languid, my body warm and heavy, saturated from pleasure. It was strange how much more tired I was from having had sex with Randy rather than Torsten, from the sheer impact Randy's body had had on me; sleepily, I reasoned that my muscles had been under far greater a strain simply from trying to hold my body together underneath his blows, having been used to being taken by a man half his weight. But this was wonderful, simply wonderful, I thought; now I felt the way I usually did only after a long swim or a much heavier fuck, the sort that involved whips and chains. I was so utterly sated, so blissful and carefree that I was ready to fall asleep where I lay.

But Torsten, having been denied all night, now demanded his share. In moments, he was upon me: hungrily, he ate Randy's sperm from my ass, lapped it up from my pussy, stroking his cock as he did so.

"Did I tell you you could touch yourself?" Randy said, quirking his eyebrow at Torsten playfully, even as he was still catching his breath.

"Punish me, then," Torsten grinned, licking his lips.

Randy shook his head. "No. Not yet. You'd enjoy it too much. Come here."

Torsten made to suck his cock, but Randy stopped him from doing that, too, with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Lie down between us, that's it. On your back."

Torsten just purred, glad that he was finally the centre of attention. He crossed his hands behind his head and leaned back against the pillows. "Go on, then," he said with a twinkle in his eyes; "have your wicked way with me."

Randy laid his hand on Torsten's belly, just above his cock. "Keep your hands where they are," he said, gently, looking into Torsten's eyes, and even that soft, lazy murmur of a command was so powerful Torsten stilled a little.

Randy continued to stroke Torsten's chest, his belly, his flanks; he caressed Torsten's body all over apart from his genitals, now so purple in their prison of leather that I wondered if he wasn't causing himself damage. But I didn't dare move: I only lay silent beside Torsten, anchoring him with the softness and the weight of my body against his. I sensed that he needed me, needed to rest against me in order to take Randy's gift without breaking; for this touch, this tender touch of another man took him completely by surprise.

Randy knew exactly what he was doing, using soft, gentle touches to ease Torsten back into sex between men. He caressed Torsten the way a man caresses a woman, with the confidence of a man dominant, the man who with his very touch reassures a woman that there is no turning back, now; that the conquest had been made and that all fear should now flee in shame, that this flesh underneath him was now free to yield and unfold in pleasure. 

Upwards towards pleasure, he called Torsten's body; pleasure with each one of his touches, with the surety of the bridegroom; yet, at the same time, never forgetting the body underneath him was male, cupping every sinuous muscle, measuring every hard curve of bone and flesh with his touch. I remembered what Torsten had told me about affection between boys having been seen as far greater a sin than a quick fumble to relieve tension: this, this soft, mesmerising pattern Randy wove with his touch across Torsten's body, this blanket of tenderness he now enwrapped him in was far more perverse than just a simple suck or fuck. 

With this touch, Randy put Torsten back together piece by piece like some ancient physician setting limbs, and I was jealous of this. Should _I_ not have been the one to put him back together again, the way Isis had done with Osiris? I hated my female body at that moment, the fact that I could not, by the sheer force of my passion, transform myself into a red-blooded male to let Torsten feel such a body against his: that I couldn't take him the way a man could, lacking the heaviness, the strength, the living cock now stirring full against his thigh. 

But it was then that Torsten turned to me, cupping my face, gazing into my eyes with such gratitude and awe upon his face that he broke my heart. Randy slid down his body and took his cock into his mouth, and Torsten keened through clenched teeth, his eyelashes falling to his cheeks, shining black with tears. Yet Torsten forced his eyes open again, coaxed me closer so that he might kiss my lips, his breathing uneaven against my mouth. "Thank you," he whispered, looking at me with such adoration, such happiness that I was ashamed of myself: for was it not I who had brought him this experience, I who had told Randy to give him this in the first place? Because it was _me_ Torsten was now thanking; it was me Torsten was now sacrificing this painfully vulnerable moment to. And as Randy spread Torsten's legs and began to lick his ass, Torsten sobbed, his hand clutching mine, his bent knees trembling as he lay spread out on the bed, open, open to the pleasure another man was now pouring into him.

"Are you ready?" I asked Torsten softly, smiling at him.

"Yes," he laughed, a little embarrassed.

Randy lifted his head from between Torsten's legs and slapped his thigh. "Turn around."

Torsten did as he was told; Randy guided him onto all fours, spreading his ass with his hands. He didn't ask about the tattoo, even if seeing one on a nobleman must've surprised him; he soon focused his gaze on Torsten's anus once more.

"It's a beautiful ass," he murmured reassuringly and caressed Torsten's buttocks. "Did you say you had something to open this with?" he asked me, smiling.

I was a little surprised at first, but realised this was because Randy truly wanted to do it right: Torsten was still a little nervous. I dug around in our toy box--one of those few possessions of ours we had not yet given up--and handed Randy a simple black rubber plug. "Will this do?"

"Perfect," he said, then gestured for me to come closer. "Here. Let's do it together," he said, kissing one of Torsten's buttocks. "I can see it's an ass that won't be easily sated," he chuckled, running his fingers across the swollen, pursed bud of it, delighting in the way Torsten shivered at the touch.

"I meant what I said about him being a hopeless little slut," I said warmly and scooped wetness from my pussy to slicken up the plug. 

"I can see that," Randy said as he began to ease the plug into Torsten--it sunk inside almost immediately, Torsten keening into his crossed hands as the flared end of the bulb slipped inside of his body.

"That was quick!" Randy laughed.

I slapped Torsten's ass. "That's nothing for him. Wait until you move it inside of him," I said and ran my hand across Torsten's cock, softly, gently, adoring the way his ass clenched around the plug, the way he whimpered through his nose. 

"Is that so?" Randy said and took a firm hold of the plug, spitting loudly, messily over Torsten's ass, loving the way Torsten shivered at the filthiness of the act. "Do you like it when I do this to your ass?" Randy said, pulling the plug out so that the muscles of Torsten's asshole spread around it in beautiful, pink whorls. But he didn't give Torsten time to answer before he plunged the plug in again, then tugged it out, fucking him with it, the suddenness of it all making all the hairs on Torsten's arms stand on end. "Answer me."

"Yes," Torsten panted, his tongue trembling against the pillows. "Oh, God."

"Would you like something bigger in there? Hmm?"

"Please!"

"This ass had better be clean, you know. She told me you pretend to forget sometimes, and she also told me why."

And at that, Torsten closed his eyes, clutched the sheets and _mewled._

Randy just smacked his ass. "Tell me. Did you clean up?"

Torsten buried his face in the pillows, shaking, his cock now jerking in my palm. "No," he said quietly.

That shocked even me. But it made sense that he would take this risk, knowing this might be his last time with a man, knowing how much he needed it. I knew that even if Torsten hadn't taken an enema--and he wouldn't have had the time to do that tonight--the rectum itself was usually empty. I knew that if he had something in there it'd only be a trace, nothing a man used to penetrating others wouldn't have encountered before. Yet I sensed even our old hustler hesitating, his natural revulsion stilling him, probably because he remembered what I'd told him of Torsten's fetishes. Now he wasn't as keen to pull the plug out of Torsten's body again; he was only rubbing the flared base with his thumb.

I knew I had to intervene. Gently, I moved Randy's hand aside from the plug and kissed his palm, then kissed all around the plug, licking the raised rim of Torsten's ass, showing Randy there was nothing to be scared of, Torsten himself whimpering underneath my kiss. "He needs this," I told Randy and looked into his eyes, begging for understanding. "I'll clean up if there's a mess."

"No," Randy said and shook his head, kissing my forehead. "He'll do it," he said, grinning at me, then at Torsten. "Won't you, my boy?"

"Yes," Torsten whispered quietly, his ass clenching around the plug, clenching, clenching.

I laughed and rested my head on the small of Torsten's back, over the tattoo, just as he had done to me. "We'll do it together. Go on. Let me taste him. Make sure he's clean enough for you."

And oh, the look in Randy's eyes, their dark flash, the wideness of his pupils as he leaned down to play. He grinned at me, nuzzled my face, kissed me, teasing me by pretending to pull the plug out only to push it back in again. I purred onto his lips, devouring his breath, my pussy clenching and clenching; God, I wanted him to fuck me, wanted Torsten to fuck me, so aroused was I by this game. Torsten breathed heavily underneath me, straining as Randy forced his ass to open around the plug, the muscles of it unfurling like a dark pink flower. The Chrysanthemum Gate, the Chinese called it, dilating and expanding, moist from our spit, from glycerine, hot and wet and delicious.

"Please," I whimpered before Torsten did, "please let me taste it."

"Mm-hmm?" Randy said, pulling the plug out slowly, slowly, watching as the muscles of Torsten's anus clung to it, as if they did not want it to leave. The plug was dark, shining, and it looked perfectly clean; it only smelled like the blood-metal of flesh, a little dank, and again my pussy clenched violently.

"Please."

"Here you are," Randy said softly, yet as I closed my mouth around the plug and sucked, it was Randy who moaned, his cock that now jerked and slapped against his belly, even harder than it had been before. The plug tasted mostly of rubber, of the sweetness of glycerine; I was a little disappointed that Torsten had slickened himself because of the way the glycerine overpowered the taste of flesh, but he must have been afraid of pain. Yet I wanted more, more: I sunk my tongue into his asshole and licked him on the inside, rubbing my pussy as I finally got to taste the deep, dark salt-must, the herbal richness I had been looking for, shuddering in delight, almost coming there and then, almost, almost.

But now Randy pulled me off by my hair, spat on Torsten's ass and started to push his cock inside: Torsten moaned as if stabbed, his entire body stiffening at the suddenness with which Randy entered him.

"What's the matter?" Randy said with a perverse lightness, cupping Torsten's hips. "You _are_ a little faggot, aren't you?" he grinned, a perfect, ravishing grin. "You know how to open up. Come on. Let me in. Show me what kind of a man you are."

Torsten whimpered at that, adoring Randy's words, the words themselves an absolution, the most beautiful thing another man could've said to him at a moment like this. He breathed deep and pushed back against Randy, yet his body was still straining, despite the fact that he wanted it, wanted it desperately. He panted, gasped as he began to rock himself onto Randy's cock, punishing himself with the penetration, and I took pity on him: I slid underneath him and kissed his mouth, spread my legs for him. Randy got the hint immediately and pressed Torsten's body down, so that Torsten could penetrate me as he was penetrated.

"How do you like that?" I asked Torsten, drawing him deeper into my pussy, closing my legs around both men.

Torsten laughed, kissed me clumsily from his joy, rocking his hips to relish us both. "The bisexual's dream," he slurred, his cock so hard inside of my pussy, so wonderful.

"Don't tell me you've never done this before," I laughed, adoring his face as Randy began to move into him, fucking him into me, fucking both of us at once with a marvellous strength.

"Never with a woman I loved," Torsten said, kissing my mouth; he clutched me to himself and moaned as Randy, jealous at that comment, rammed deep inside of him. "And you're not bad either!" Torsten shot over his shoulder to Randy, and I could feel him squeezing his ass around Randy's cock, fucking him back with his hips. "Fuck me."

Randy ignored him and turned to kiss me over Torsten's shoulder. "Shall we, m'am?"

"Yes, let's," I grinned and slipped my hand to my pussy. The position was so awkward I didn't know if I was going to be able to come, yet Torsten's cock was so big that I only needed it to move a little inside of me to get enough friction. There, there; if I angled my hips just right, I would perhaps be able to come right here, the way Randy was now undulating into us both. Because now I was greedy, greedy for another orgasm, my body so aroused from the emotional intensity of Torsten's surrender that I was aching. 

"Fuck him," I purred at Randy over Torsten's shoulder, "fuck his little faggot ass."

And Randy did: I loved being able to witness all the emotions, all the sensations that flickered over Torsten's face as he was penetrated, to feel each and every thrust of Randy's hips in my own bones, each jerk and pulse of Torsten's cock within my pussy as Randy fucked him to orgasm. Torsten always looked so beautiful when he came internally; his first orgasm was dry and so was the second. I was astounded at how easily he came undone inside of me, without ejaculating, soon so wrung out that he had to clutch the sheets, clutch me in order to stay in place. I came before he ejaculated myself, grinding my pussy into him, milking him with my pelvic convulsions as he was being fucked, swallowing him within my body as he was swallowing Randy inside of his. And after I had come, I held him in place with my legs and my arms and my pussy, trapping him, holding him still as Randy took his pleasure of him: Torsten's moans turned into meaowing little wails as Randy started to lose control, to truly pound into him, so violently the entire bed creaked.

"Make him come," I told Randy, holding Torsten's head in my hands; "fuck him so hard he'll blow a big load in my pussy," I hissed, never taking my eyes off Torsten.

Torsten just puffed, whimpered, his entire face red and scrunched up in a thousand wrinkles, his veins standing upon his temples: oh, the glorious sight of the vainest of men having completely lost his dignity thanks to the pleasure of a big cock in his ass.

"You heard the lady," Randy said, and between us, we fucked him, pussy and cock engulfing and penetrating him, man and woman entering and enveloping his body, drowning him in our flesh. Torsten jerked and lost his grip as he started to come; he nearly slid out of me completely as he shot his sperm into me, Randy's thrusts so wild he was pushed backwards and forwards upon me, slipping, trembling in our sweat. I clutched him still, took him with the muscles of my pussy, drinking his sperm, drinking Randy's thrusts. 

"Good boy," I whispered into Torsten's shoulder and grinned at Randy, nodding at him so that he knew he was now free to let go.

"God--" Randy groaned and pulled out, flopping back on the bed, his cock still hard, slick, only the slightest hint of yellow and white upon it. "Come here," he said, gesturing to Torsten. "Sit on me. It's about time you did all the work."

Torsten was shaking in every limb, but he obeyed: he climbed on top of Randy's body, braced his hands on his broad chest and began to ride him. Fatigued or not, he made sure to make even this ride into a performance: he undulated on top of Randy lasciviously, rocking his hips like a belly-dancer, milking him with his ass just as I had been milking his cock with my pussy. He cast his strap aside and let his half-hard cock, his soft balls bounce free between their bodies as he took his time riding Randy, kissing him, thanking him with his body. I adored him, kissing the rivulets of sweat from the dip of his spine, then lay beside them and masturbated slowly, satisfying myself with their beauty: the way the muscles on Torsten's belly moved as he rode Randy, the way he leered in delight, having come himself, knowing exactly how beautiful he looked, the faggot triumphant.

It looked to me as if Randy was holding back simply for his own sake, now that he'd satisfied us both: this must have been a special night for him as well, the way he smiled with genuine happiness at this extraordinary creature riding him, Torsten enjoying himself so thoroughly. For a moment, all hardness and roughness were gone from him, both men consumed with youthful delight, playful as they kissed and moved together in this dance of ecstasy. How on earth could anyone have ever thought this joy was unnatural, the greatest of all sins? To me, it was the most beautiful, magical of sights, seeing two grown men let go of their pride and letting emotion, pleasure flow free. I adored the way they cast aside the limitations, the artificial rules set for the sexes, breaking through the limited range of movements prescribed for male bodies--God forbid a man should let his body move like a woman's during sex!--and allowing themselves to move with warmth, with fluidity, extracting every drop of pleasure their bodies were capable of producing.

But now, Randy was tired of mere play; he caressed Torsten's cheek. "I'm going to come, soon. Are you going to taste it, then?" he rumbled, deep in his chest, lazily.

"Mm-hmm," Torsten murmured, licking Randy's mouth.

Randy sunk his hand into Torsten's hair, tugging upon it a little. "Ask properly."

"Will you let me taste my ass?" Torsten purred, a dark, soft whore's churr.

"Again," Randy said, sucking Torsten's mouth with a hungry kiss. "What do you want to taste? And why?"

"I want to taste my _shit,_ " Torsten snapped, shuddering, all of us jerking a little as he said it, "because I like it."

"Little slut," Randy hissed, then shoved Torsten down, never taking his hand out of his hair, kneeling before Torsten, now, holding his cock out to his mouth. "Suck."

And now it was Randy I was looking at, as was Torsten, adoring the strength of him, the beauty of him; the way his stern command melted into a sigh of exquisite pleasure-shock as Torsten sucked his dirty cock into his mouth. His broad frame, his every muscle trembling from exhaustion and thrill as Torsten worshipped his cock, licked it, sucked it, huffing, whimpering, satisfying himself with his taste, his mouth smeared with the yellow and the white.

"God!" Randy cried as he fucked Torsten's mouth, going faster and faster; "You're such a dirty bastard, you--oh--"

But then he was coming, Torsten keening, choking, gagging on his cock as Randy held him down, Randy fucking his mouth so violently tears streamed out of Torsten's eyes, so that a little of his sperm burst out of Torsten's nostrils. It was a disgusting sight, amazing; I had to push my fingers into my pussy and fuck myself with them to stop my body from spasming so. I couldn't come any more, but I moaned still, kneeling on my hand and grinding into it as I watched. And once Randy pulled Torsten's head back, his face gleaming in the lamplight, exquisite, I had to kiss him, had to drink Randy's sperm from him. Randy grabbed my hair as well, grinding our faces together around his cock, both of us sucking, drooling, snorting around its glory like filthy animals, drunk on the taste of foam, shit and sperm, replete in our sin.

"You're unbelievable," Randy groaned as he fell back onto the bed, his chest heaving, gleaming from sweat. 

With his tongue, Torsten pulled a string of Randy's sperm from my cheek and slurped it in, noisily, theatrically, making me shiver in twisted delight. "And we're very pleased with your services," he purred, pulling me down with himself so that he lay nestled between Randy and myself, still greedy for our warmth.

***

"That was exquisite," Torsten sighed after a while, caressing Randy's chest lazily with the back of his hand.

"I'm glad," Randy said, nuzzling Torsten's temple before getting up.

"Where are you going?" I said.

"I just need the bathroom."

It was then that a wicked, wicked inspiration struck me. "Oh, no, you don't," I said, and dragged Torsten out of bed. "Not when there's a perfectly good urinal right here," I purred, Torsten's eyes widening in realisation. "Come on."

Both men were too tired, too wrung out from fucking to protest: soon, we were all laughing like maniacs as we wrangled Torsten into the sort of position where he could best take Randy's piss inside of himself. I hadn't brought the funnel, so eventually I made Torsten lie back in the bathtub knotted up like a fakir, balanced on his shoulders, his ass pointing towards the sky. I knelt over his face, holding his legs back and spreading his ass with my hands, tugging him open with my fingers. 

"Now, then."

"I can't believe you're making me do this," Randy laughed, at first far too nervous to piss, still half-hard from arousal; to be frank, Torsten's ass looked so delicious I couldn't blame him. 

"I can't either," Torsten groaned, mock-outraged, sending me yelping as he bit my legs in revenge.

"Go on," I laughed, squealed. "He won't stay open for much longer."

And finally, finally we managed it: Randy could insert just the tip of his cock into Torsten's ass, and from the soft, choked noise Torsten made, I could tell he was finally pissing inside of his body. 

"Oh, God," Torsten sighed, his ass twitching so that a little dribble of piss escaped it, but Randy soon pushed deeper inside. "Oh, God, oh, God, Oh, God--"

Randy laughed, a little incredulously. "I'm finished. What do I do now?" he asked, looking comical with his cock still inside of Torsten.

I took out the plug we had been using before. "Pull out slowly just so I can--that's it--" I managed to insert the plug with hardly any spillage at all; I smacked Torsten's ass and let go of him. "There. How does that feel?"

"Amazing," Torsten slurred as he curled up on the bottom of the tub like a cat, laughing in disbelief. "Warm."

I kissed him, kissed him deep and hugged him. "You're very silly, Daddy."

"With the silliest little daughter in the world," he laughed, gradually climbing up to a sitting position. "How long were you planning on keeping me like this?"

"For a while, perhaps." I looked at Randy, at the way his cock was hardening once again. No wonder he had chosen this profession; with stamina like that, he would've been wasted in any other occupation. "Care for another round?" I turned on the shower and embraced Randy underneath it, kissing him.

And there Randy and I stood, washing each other, kissing each other; a lazy, sweet and slow fuck under the spray as Torsten watched, his guts full of Randy's piss. Torsten just lay there, with a blissful smile on his face as he watched us, his cock hardening and then softening as he stroked it. He was not in a rush towards orgasm, merely enjoying his enema, enjoying the sight of us, not having to work for his pleasure at all. When he knew he could not hold it inside any longer, we held him between us, standing together underneath the shower and gently, I took out the plug. We swallowed up his groans of delight as he expelled the enema over my legs, kissing his pleasure from his mouth, rubbing his belly as the warm water sluiced us clean.

"Thank you," he murmured and kissed us both, hugging us tight; I knew how much this meant to him, how glad he was not to have to go to his grave without having experienced it. Randy was mostly amused, but he hugged Torsten, too, probably used to his clients being emotional afterwards.

When we finally returned to bed, Torsten was so tired he fell asleep in minutes; he didn't wake up even as Randy dressed, gave me a goodnight kiss and left--with an extra tip in his back pocket. 

I didn't have the heart to wake Torsten up, so I just pulled the bedcovers over us, undid our bathrobes so I could press my skin against his, nestling into his warmth. 

The clock on the wall told me it was twenty past one; we had been together for three years. I was too tired to feel melancholy about this; so warm and so happy that I was made of but contentment itself. They had been perfect years, I thought to myself; three perfect, perfect years.

"Happy anniversary, Daddy," I murmured into the warmth of his chest, and from the corner of my eye, I could see he was smiling in his sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

The following day, we learned that the girl in the suite next to ours had jumped overboard and drowned. The beautiful, vivacious young girl we had been lusting after but days earlier, the girl we had been meaning to seduce. I lost all interest in my breakfast, excused myself, and by the time I reached our cabin, I was in tears. 

It was because that girl could have been me, and the realisation of this--especially on the anniversary of Torsten having rescued me--plunged me into horrid grief. She and I had not exchanged a single word, yet in my hysteria, I imagined her to be everything I was: a young girl eager for adventure, for sex, held back by her parents, held back by a society that abhorred a woman with a will of her own. Everything about her had spoken of a rebellion fuelled by sensuality and imagination, of fighting against everything that chained her. Yet she had broken under the pressure, because she had not been able to escape, had not had anyone to help her become what she truly was. What an artist of the erotic she could have become, what a great mistress, what an adventuress--oh, it broke my heart.

Thus, I lay there on the bed, weeping for all such girls, weeping for all such young lives wasted and lost, inconsolable.

Torsten arrived a little later, never one to omit breakfast. The way he sat on the bed beside me and smoked, waiting for me to come out of my grief seemed callous; I snapped at him, too.

"Don't you understand? Had it not been for you, it would've been _me_ at the bottom of the sea!"

He nodded and stumped his cigarette, blowing smoke out of his nostrils like a dragon. "If we'd fucked her, she'd still be here today."

"If you choose to put it like that," I huffed, wiping my face with my handkerchief.

"It's a waste," he said and shrugged, "a waste of a fine piece of ass."

"Stop it."

He turned to me, more irritated than anything. "The fact of the matter remains that _you_ are not at the bottom of the sea. You're wasting precious time again, being miserable."

I slapped him for that; too sick and tired of him not caring. "Shut up!"

That slap sent him into a coughing attack, and this time, to my horror, he coughed up blood. Finally, he wiped his mouth with his hand and looked at it, his eyes blazing with cold fire as he regarded me. It was a look of a man who felt betrayed, the blaze of a madness similar to what I felt right now, both of us now coming undone because of impending death. 

"You'll be sorry for that," he said, calmly, in a voice that made my blood run cold.

I looked at my hands, terrified, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I'm not awake enough yet to beat you up the way you deserve," he murmured. 

Yet he slapped me hard, hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes, to send me flying back on the bed. 

"Will that do?" he asked, his voice tired, that of the father weary of having to put up with an unruly child. "I'm too tired to fuck you," he groaned, "even if that's what you wanted, was it not?"

"No," I sulked, burying my face in the pillow.

"Oh?"

"I don't want you to fuck me," I mumbled.

"All right," he said and unbuckled his belt; "then, I will."

"No!" 

I screamed at him, kicked at him, hit him, tried to push him off me, but he wouldn't listen. He caught my wrists in his hand, pulled up my skirt, spat on his cock and pushed it inside of me. He had never done this before, had never truly forced me because I had always been curious about even the most twisted, the most brutal of his desires. But perhaps this was exactly what I had wanted deep down inside: to be beaten by him, raped by him, truly torn apart by him. As he panted and grunted on top of me, hurting my pussy, crushing my body underneath his, I wondered whether there was any difference between sex and violence for us any more, because even this made a twisted sort of sense to me. It was what I needed, what both of us needed: could I ever have truly said no to him, truly hated him for this? Because I _wanted_ him to hurt me, wanted him to tear me to pieces like tissue paper, wanted him to destroy me so that I wouldn't have to hurt any longer.

So I drank in each thrust, a blunt, metallic hammering in my too-dry, too-hard and cold pussy, unable to even breathe underneath him; I lay passive, absorbing his sperm as he finished inside of me within moments.

"There," he huffed into my shoulder, still lying on top of me in his rumpled clothes, his greasy hair falling onto my neck. "Is that enough?"

"You did that to serve me," I said quietly, staring out of the window, refusing to look at his face. "You bastard."

He groaned and pulled off me. "It's funny," he said, fumbling for his cigarettes, lighting another one. "I thought I might enjoy that, but I didn't."

"You don't hate me enough to enjoy it," I said, still staring out of the window, at the endless blue-green sea, the gray sky. 

"That's true," he said, offering me the cigarette he had lit, like an Indian offering a peace pipe. 

I let him put the cigarette between my lips. I pulled down my skirt and curled up in his arms, smoking, sighing. "And I couldn't hate you, no matter what you did. It's too late now."

He took the cigarette back from me. "This wasn't the way I expected we'd celebrate today," he said, but with such self-deprecating humour, such a soft laughter that it did not hurt me. "Let's do something fun. Just the two of us. What do you say?"

"Let's stay in today, Daddy," I sighed. "I'm sick of other people. I'd rather just focus on us," I said, looking up into his eyes, serious. We would arrive in Southampton in two days; we could fuck plenty of others in that time. "Please."

He stumped the cigarette and kissed my cheek. "All right." 

He slid his hand down between my legs, now asking for permission with his eyes, and I granted it to him. I opened my legs and he kissed me softly, apologetically, caressing the short, damp hairs of my vulva. "Did Daddy hurt your little pussy?" 

"You did," I whispered against his shirt, and I did not know if it came out as an accusation or as a mere statement of fact, as an acknowledgement that these things happened. I still felt cold, and wanted to be drawn out of that coldness. 

"Then let me make up for it," he said and slid down to kiss my pussy. 

As he undressed me, I burst into tears; he swallowed all those tears with his lips, hushing me, the father consoling the broken daughter, just as I had wanted him to. He mouthed me, fingered me, fucked me, made love to me until that heat began to unfurl within me once more; he dived deep into my soul through my flesh and lifted Laura out of the depths of the sea to resuscitate her with his love. And in his lovemaking, he clung to me with such desperation, such devotion it awakened a fierce tenderness in me, so that I clung back, took him with my hips, answered his passion completely. The way it should have been, the way it always had been.

After, I rested in his arms, both of us now naked, peaceful. "It's like Tamara and the demon," I whispered, playing with the sparse hairs on his chest.

"How so?" he asked, half-asleep in my arms. "It's a long time since I read that one. Refresh my memory."

"He offered her everything. Power beyond that of mere mortals, domain over earth and sea, more than any ordinary woman ever got. And when she responded to his embrace, ready to become his queen, the power of his kiss slew her." I looked up into his eyes. "That's you, Daddy. I wanted you and all that you offered me, and for that, I will be slain." I did not say this to accuse him: I had accepted it long ago, with a perfect calmness.

"But you forget something. In that story--I remember it, now--the demon was forever doomed to wander the earth, alone, when Tamara was taken up to Heaven. Theirs wasn't a happy ending. But we," he said and laced his fingers with mine, "we shall be together forever."

"Promise me you'll fuck me in Hell," I whispered against his hand, "show them how it's done."

He laughed, nestling his still-wet cock against my pussy. "I shall. And then I'm going to go up to Satan himself, fuck him in the ass and assume the throne."

I burst into laughter. "Do you know, I think you would."

***

The rest of our journey became a spiral of disintegration: periods of sensual inebriation transpierced by vertignious moments of weightlessness, gunpowder-flash realisations of how nothing had any meaning apart from our love, the eye of the storm around which everything else was pulled and ripped apart. Whirling and whirling around this pole-star, this fulcrum of our togetherness, our bipartite male-female body spun human beings and animals, intoxicants, deliriants, blood, excreta, sperm.

We no longer had our camera to immortalise these images of our fornications; we were burning them onto the surface of the world, imprinting them onto it as light and shadow draw shapes upon film, one picture following another in an endless cavalcade of debaucheries.

_The deck._

I accidentally spilling my glass of red wine over Torsten; he just laughing and asking for more. I taking the whole bottle and pouring it all over him as he sat in his deckchair, everyone thinking us mad as we kissed and kissed under the red shower of it, drinking the wine from each other's mouths.

_Our cabin._

Torsten bringing in a girl, a girl young, perhaps too young, dominating her, tying her to one of the bedposts and slapping her pussy until she wept. She sobbing and telling us how much she wanted to be fucked, but how she wanted to save up her virginity, so desperate until we showed her all the other ways in which a woman could be taken. Her begging for Torsten not to stop as he fucked her ass, and my feeling that we were saving a life, preventing her from drowning even as I drowned, suffocated my face in her dripping pussy. Torsten bending her over in that position I so loved, the tenderness in his eyes making me weep as he offered me the taste of her from his cock, the foam-marbled beauty of it. My last taste of another woman's pussy and ass, my very last: I weeping until I was hysterical, Torsten sitting on my face until I was quiet, the lack of oxygen forcing my heart to still.

_Randy's cabin._

Torsten and Randy having sex face to face, Torsten holding his knees up, trembling from his emotion. Soft, wet, deep kisses, the slow, slow dance of Randy's hips, as close to love as these two men could get. Torsten staring into Randy's eyes, forlorn, so desperate, so chaotic, his thoughts of mortality writ clear upon his face. The quietest little ah-ah-ah noises escaping from his lips as Randy took him, the way it looked like he simply could not take any more, so overwhelmed that he seemed close to tears. His cock and his balls shifting free upon his belly, free from all straps and rings, hard and soft and then hard again as his desire rose and fell. Randy caressing Torsten's cock with the backs of his fingers, hushing him, hushing him with genuine tenderness. And Torsten orgasming simply from that, gasping for air through his tears, gulping for breath, his cock pulsing and pulsing as if it were lamenting as well, the plant releasing its seed before withering, dying.

_The ship's restaurant._

Torsten hiding me underneath a round dinner table and eight men sitting around it, I quietly serving each man's cock with my mouth. The men trying to pretend they were at ease so that no one would notice, aroused by this twisted knot of self-control and abandon; most coming fast. One man blending into another until I no longer knew whom I was serving, and how this was exactly what I had wanted, wanting to serve but cock itself, swallow but sperm itself. One man taking longer than the others to finish, pushing so deep into my throat it was hard not to make noise; his fingers cruel upon my scalp as they pulled at my hair. I feeling for his body and recognising wide, wide woman's hips, their sensual sway. Torsten. Always Torsten, always the cruellest, the most beautiful; it was upon his cock that I deliberately choked myself and came as I rode my hands. 

_Southampton, a brothel near the docks._

Torsten walking me around on a leash, asking everyone in the brothel to push a finger inside my ass, to sample it, the saccharine sweetness of it. Torsten blindfolding me, locking the cuffs on my ankles and wrists together and laying me down on a bed, then letting men fuck me for free. Torsten fully clothed in his tuxedo, holding my head in his lap, brushing my hair with his fingers and kissing me as I was fucked raw, my father drinking in my sobs like wine. I losing count of the number of men I had served, my pussy and my ass slurping with sperm from my sobs, Torsten only asking them to stop when I had nearly lost consciousness. Torsten picking me up in his arms and carrying me to the taxi, carrying me to our hotel room, injecting me with morphine for the pain. 

_The ship to Sweden._

Torsten not fucking me for two whole days after the orgy, seeing how I could barely walk after having been so used, his face soft with tenderness as he told me how proud he was of me. I dressing in my little girl's outfit and leaning against him as we set off for Stockholm, drugged with morphine from morning to evening, spending the entire trip as father and daughter, innocent, sweet. Torsten spreading out my fur coat upon the bed so that we could lie upon it, he wrapping us in thick blankets, drawing them over our heads so that we were immersed in darkness, just as I had done as a child when playing bears. Torsten feeding me honey with his fingers, honey and then more morphine, curling up around me and holding me tight. The sweetest of hibernations, being so swallowed by this soft, warm womb of opium and honey, completely isolated from the world. All of me swimming in love, a love made even more all-embracing and euphoric by the opium; in those moments, I felt a happiness so complete I had not felt anything like it since childhood. Those warm summer afternoons that would never end, when you thought you would never die, the perpetual midsummer sunlight making the very thought of winter seem absurd. And always, always at the centre of my summers, always at the centre of my happiness, my beloved Uncle Torsten, my Daddy, his cad moustache tickling me until I was giggling, giggling so much I felt dizzy, falling joyous into his arms.

_Stockholm, the Peacock._

A leather bench expressly designed so that upon it, one person could be tied down and used by others. Torsten lying on his back upon this bench, I watching from the closet as several men fucked him. For I had wanted to experience sex between men in all its brutality, just as I had done in the shed, with none of Torsten's men knowing they were being watched. Torsten with his ankles cuffed to his wrists just as I had been, bent double, his ass bare, offered. Torsten making noises, shocking noises with his mouth and his ass, slurping, farting as the cocks pulled out and pushed back in again. Cocks sliding out of his ass to push slick into his mouth, then out of his mouth and back inside his ass, his ass gaping pink and wide as he lapped up his juices. Torsten's cock, his balls trapped in leather, tortured by clothespegs, the pegs swaying as he was fucked. Torsten kissing the men as they fucked him, the men kissing Torsten, with sloppy, wet noises, spitting upon his face and his chest, slapping his face, his chest, his genitals until he spasmed. The men twisting his cock, biting him, hurting him until he came from the pain, spilling over their hands, over his belly. 

The gurgling groans as cocks were stuffed into Torsten's mouth and down his throat, the sounds and sights of him coughing and spitting fluids. Two men taking Torsten's ass at once: one man underneath him, one on top of him, two cocks pushed into his ass, making him sob between them, and it sounding to me as if he was afraid of dying, so awful and terrible it sounded, even as he ejaculated so violently he hit his chin. Torsten's head lolling to the side as another man pulled his cock out of his mouth, Torsten weeping from having been choked so, used so, satisfied so. His lashes sharp and dark wings against his cheeks, rivulets of sperm pouring down the sides of his mouth, white streaked with caramel. And after the men had gone, Torsten's heaving chest, a pool of piss trembling upon his sternum, trickling down over his shoulders with his exhausted, phlegmatic sobs. 

And finally, finally, those sobs breaking, dying as I leaned down between his legs and drank this libation to Priapus from his overflowing ass, drank it all in orgasmic joy.

_Stockholm, Helena's apartment._

Calling on Helena and learning she was not home, but the janitor knowing Torsten and letting us in. Torsten and I getting bored waiting for her to arrive; so bored that we took a daring combination of drugs, going wild. The dog playing with us eagerly and both Torsten and I giggling like children, shrieking like witches as we knew exactly what we would do with him. "Good boy," we called him and took off our clothes, offered him tastes of our genitals, letting him lap at us as we fucked. Torsten's hysterical, red, grinning face, he shaking his head at our outrageousness as I worked the dog's little, red, pointed prick, the dog whimpering happily into Torsten's ass. The dog's sperm thick, salty, rich as Torsten and I lapped it from my hand, still giggling, deciding that it must have been truly nourishing, full of proteins and vitamins. Helena still not having arrived at three o'clock in the morning; us having to leave without having had the chance to say goodbye, yet triumphant, giddy with our own madness, at having ticked yet another taboo off our list.

_Disjointed--cannot remember where--many places and nowhere at once._

Torsten and I masturbating side by side for three hours, watching each other, not allowing ourselves to come, then attacking each other with violent fury the moment the three hours were up. 

I sucking Torsten's cock in a club of ill repute, people assuming I was merely fellating him when I was drinking his piss. 

A big, strong man--was that Randy?--arranging Torsten and I on all fours side by side, just as Torsten had arranged the girls for me, fucking both our asses. We could peek at ourselves from between our legs to see our asses reflected in the mirror at the foot of the bed: we were gaping beautifully like cored apples, both having the time of our lives. Us tasting the man from ourselves and each other, thanking him with our mouths, Torsten and I kissing each other, laughing. 

"Daddy's brought you chocolate," Torsten purring as he reached inside my ass with a long silver spoon, scooping the mess out onto a bowlful of ice cream, us feeding it to each other with relish.

Torsten lying down in a bathtub in his most expensive, most well-tailored suit, masturbating. Six men surrounding him, all with their cocks out, calling him a faggot, a whore, a shit-licker, a piss-sucker, inflaming his desire with his favourite insults, driving him into a frenzy. The moment Torsten cried 'Now!' and all six men releasing bright, golden arcs of piss all over him. Torsten's howls turning into gurgles as he drank the piss into his mouth, the men ruining his suit, Torsten whimpering pitifully as he came and he came, ecstatic. The men cutting, ripping, tearing the suit off him, fucking him, filling his mouth and his ass with piss and come, forcing him to taste his shit off their cocks, forcing him to lick and suck their hairy asses. Torsten a torn, panting wreck in the bathtub after the men had left, lying in a mess of tattered cloth and filth, sobbing, weeping from his joy.

Us breaking into a chapel and defiling it--or was that an opium dream?--drunk on communion wine, fucking on the altar, soiling its pristine white cloth. Dream or not, I can still remember the bitterness of the wine, the way it stung my mouth as I licked it off Torsten's belly, the way devil-worshippers use the body of a naked woman as their altar.

I lifting the drowned girl from the sea and kissing her, licking her until she breathed again, her little pussy fluttering against my tongue as life quickened within her once more. Torsten and I fucking her into life, into heat, into a fully blossoming fury, a goddess blazing with beauty, as it should have been.

_Stockholm, the railway station._

Torsten playing an old folk song upon the out-of-tune piano in the bar, just before our train was to leave for Forssa. _"Woe is me, woe is me, what I now see,"_ Torsten singing quietly, a song of death, his voice slurred from morphine, his eyes glittering with tears. _"I see my daughter, she's walking towards me--"_

And I took his mouth, took his tears, swallowing them. He was murmuring of how I must have been a valkyrie come to claim him, reminding me of how they only chose the greatest of heroes to dine in Valhalla, and perhaps that's where we would end up, drinking and feasting.

"Perhaps," I laughed as I helped him up. 

He picked up his coat and his hat; they were dusty. I was down to my last pair of stockings; even those, I had mended three times by now. It was late in the evening and the sun shone in through the windows, silhouetting him in their light; specks of dust danced around him in the sunbeams, adoring him the way I now adored him. 

In the distance, a train whistle blew.

"Come, Daddy," I whispered and took his hand. "It's time to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most beautiful translation of "The Demon" by Mikhail Lermontov can be read [here,](https://archive.org/details/demonthe00lermrich) and the folk song Torsten plays upon the piano is [this one.](http://lyrics.wikia.com/Gjallarhorn:I_Riden_S%C3%A5/en)


	15. Chapter 15

I squeezed into Torsten's bunk in the sleeping car; we lay there spooned, fully clothed, too restless to sleep. "You never told me about those older women, Daddy," I murmured. "When you were young."

He pulled his coat over me and kissed the star on my neck. "There's not much to tell."

"Tell me anyway."

"Are you sure you want to hear it?"

I was surprised to hear a hesitation in his voice. "Why not, Daddy?"

"It's just--well." He played with the coat's buttons. When he finally answered me, he spoke slowly, warily. "All right, I'll tell you. But it's not an easy matter to talk about." 

"Must've been some woman," I quipped.

But he didn't laugh with me. "She was," he said quietly. "She's dead, now, you see. She was only a few years older than me, married to someone I knew well. I've never told anyone about it, in fact," he said. "We had to keep it a secret, or it would've destroyed us both. It nearly did." 

Words still clung to his throat; he took a long while to find the right ones. This seemed more like an awkward confession than anything else: I couldn't hear the slightest trace of the pride with which he usually described his exploits, Torsten the ladykiller always so keen to boast of his sexual conquests.

"What was her name?" I prompted.

Torsten remained quiet, too quiet.

"What's wrong?" I asked, turning around in his arms so that I was facing him. "You've never kept secrets from me before." In fact, I was upset, now; that he should act like this, that something was left unsaid between us even on the eve of our death. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Forgive me," he murmured. "Before you, there was but one woman in my life that mattered anything to me, you see, only one I thought I loved, and I thought this woman was the one. But she wasn't, and it all went terribly wrong for both of us," he sighed. "I hate telling you this, because I don't want you to be jealous," he said.

But even then, I felt he was not being honest. "You don't have to tell me her name," I lied, even if I was burning to know, now; know the name he had drawn upon his heart and then erased, the palimpsest upon which he had carved mine. "What did she look like?"

The corner of Torsten's mouth twitched with bittersweet mirth. "Fair. Voluptuous. Piercing blue eyes, and a lascivious look in them whenever her husband wasn't watching. Very much like you, in fact."

"And her husband found out."

Torsten shook his head. "He never did, actually. I don't know how we got away with it, but we did. We slept together even at his family cottage, when he was away; we fucked like animals and barely had time to dress before he came back from his hunting trip."

"How old were you?"

"I was a grown man, actually. Thirty. I'd had some adventures with women before, but she was the only one who took time to teach me, made me appreciate a woman's desire. She's the one who taught me this," he said, taking me by the throat, squeezing me by it, adoring my face as he observed the way I flushed, stiffened in arousal. "That sort of thing, you see," he said and let go, caressing my hip, as if he could feel the lust now stirring, swirling in my pelvis. "All my skill in that particular art, I owe to her."

"A woman?" I laughed. "A woman made you a sadist?" 

"She looked so beautiful when she begged for me to dominate her," he purred, now curling up a little against me, finally relishing the tale. "So I had to learn quickly."

"So none of this came from men?"

Torsten tutted pityingly. "No, no, no, no. Men are weak, not capable of the depths of cruelty women can both give and take. That's the funniest thing--I thought I preferred men, but she made me realise I loved women more after all, when it came to sheer psychology, the role-play, the games. Men are more stunted in that regard, lacking imagination. I love a good cock up the ass, as you've seen, but emotionally, I prefer women. They're warmer, more responsive, more complex. Neurotic, yes, but more rewarding, and can submit more beautifully than men ever can. After I realised these things, I also began to understand myself--it explained why I had always felt half female, too."

"You understand women on a soul level," I said and caressed his cheek. "When women don't even understand themselves, or each other. That's what you taught me," I whispered. "You're going to be so puffed up with conceit when I tell you this, but I mean it. It's as if you were more female than most women ever will be, yet stronger than any man I have ever known, either; stronger than either sex, more than the sum of their parts."

"Thank you." He kissed my mouth. "So, there you have it. It was through loving a woman that Torsten Barring understood why he was a tranny and a faggot."

I laughed; his blunt sense of humour was something I had always loved about him as well. "And you're useless outside the bedroom."

He pouted, pretending offense. "Fair enough," he said, "it's a little too late to deny that. But are you complaining?"

"Never," I said and cupped his cheek, kissing him gently. 

He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling, groaning in his chest. "I don't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"I desperately need to piss," he said and grinned at me.

I burst into laughter. "Not in here. It's not public enough."

"Pervert," he smiled at me, his eyes glittering from joy. "Quick, then. Into the corridor," he said and slapped me on the ass.

And there, in the corridor, where anyone could have seen us, he stood up and I knelt at his feet, taking his cock into my mouth. We laughed at first, but then my eyes were full of tears: his piss tasted sweet, the memories it brought back making it hard for me to swallow as I tried not to cry. The evening sun glittered through the windows, through his irises, dancing upon his sleek, dark head; my father claiming me just as he had first claimed me, wedding me to his darkness and his perversion as the train thundered around us. We were going home, back to where it had all started, retracing our steps, home, home.

I saw movement from the corner of my eye. The conductor stood at the end of the car, leaning on the doorframe. Torsten turned to him, smiling; the conductor, assuming I was fellating Torsten, just grinned and winked at him, retreating. 

After, we tumbled into our compartment, laughing, weeping, hugging; Torsten lifted me into his arms and spun me around as much as he could in such a confined space, then pulled me to lie beside him upon the bed. There, he groaned with happiness as he held me close.

"Has Daddy's little girl had a good time?" he asked, his voice rough, his breathing heavy from exertion, from his illness.

And in that, I knew he was asking me about my whole life, not just tonight; I wept and wept from joy, kissing his hands. "She has, she has. Thank you for everything, Daddy," I said, hugging him so tight he couldn't breathe, the way a child does; "you're the best Daddy a girl could ever have."

***

Forssa. The old manor, white amidst the bright, fresh green of the whispering birches, the gray-green curtains of the falls behind us: once the taxi had driven off, we were completely alone. The house had been wrapped up for over a year; in the end, we hadn't had the heart to sell it. It had been lying uninhabited ever since Grandfather had died, ever since I had left: the silence within was eerie. I had been so used to the sound of cows and horses, to servants going in and out that I hardly recognised the place. Torsten told me he'd had to ask a man at the village to come in and turn on the electricity, the water for us; when I turned on the kitchen tap to wash my hands, the water ran brown at first. We'd brought our own food and drink, what little we needed: after all, at the stroke of midnight, we were to end our lives.

The house seemed haunted even before we'd had the chance to become ghosts; Torsten coughed violently at the dust that billowed out as we pulled the sheets off the furniture. Ritually, we went through each and every room, the lord and lady of the manor announcing they were home. Finally, we arrived at the attic, I carrying a candelabra--we never did get lights installed up there--and Torsten carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The attic had always frightened everyone else except me; I had always loved it because I could be alone there, alone amidst all the old banners, spears, cuirasses and muskets, remnants of the Barrings' martial past. Here, I had woven my own little plays that had lasted for hours: here, I had fallen into long trances imagining myself a medieval knight or a vampire countess; here, I could always masturbate to my heart's content, so that the musty air and the cobwebs immediately triggered feelings of deep arousal within me.

Torsten, never one to miss a chance to show off, drew an old sabre from its scabbard and weighed it in his hand. "Hold out the glasses."

And with one stroke, he took the top off the champagne bottle, I rushing to fill our glasses, laughing as the foam spilled over our clothes.

"That's the way the hussars do it, you know," Torsten said and raised his glass. "I always wanted to be one."

"Didn't they say that no true hussar would live past thirty?" I said and raised mine. 

"Sixty-six years we've had in total," he sighed proudly and slinked his hips. "Not bad for a pair of hellraisers. To us!"

"To us!" I clinked glasses with him. "Skål, and the Devil take me," we both said in unison, the old libertine's toast, laughing at our telepathy. 

"Speaking of evil, I was going to show you something," he said and moved aside an old trunk, prying one of the floorboards loose. "You asked about that woman," he said, his hands on his knees, staring into the gap he had made, waiting.

"What about her?" I asked, having downed my champagne in one swallow, now refilling my glass. 

"I was going to tell you on your eighteenth birthday," he murmured. "Or maybe not," he smiled wryly, to himself. "Because I thought you'd kill me."

"I _am_ going to kill you," the morbid playfulness with which I said the truth now swirling, sparkling in my belly like the champagne.

"Which is exactly why it doesn't matter any more," he said and took out a piece of paper from between the floorboards, blowing dust from it and shuffling to me upon his knees. "Still, I would ask you not to hate me, Laura," he said and looked into my eyes with a grim seriousness, not letting me take the letter yet.

I rolled my eyes. "Torsten, you are a rapist, a murderer and a pederast. And so am I. I doubt there's anything I would judge you for. Give it to me."

He snatched my wrist in his hand, squeezing it painfully. "I'm serious. This letter concerns _you._ Do you recognise the handwriting?"

I squinted in the darkness, the champagne already having gone to my head a little, making the letters blur in my eyes. "No."

"No," Torsten said quietly, "I suppose you wouldn't." He unfolded the entire letter and showed me the signature. "Margit."

I looked up at him. "Margit who?"

But as he handed me the letter and remained quiet, the champagne rose into my throat, my stomach clutched by an ice-cold terror.

_Margit._

The name I had always pronounced "Mag-gi," never having known her long enough to learn how to address her properly. Fair hair, blue eyes, a face I only remembered from a photo on my dresser. And now, the champagne bubbled up from my shock, making me burp--so inappropriate at a time like this; my hands were shaking.

_"Little brother,_

_It's been three months. And it's exactly what I had feared, what you and I had both feared. Erik cornered me today and asked me why I had been behaving the way I had done, eating so much and crying so much--and I had to tell him the truth. Well, only half the truth, because I don't know the whole truth myself. He came to me that night at the cottage, after you'd left; I literally don't know which one of you is the father. What am I going to do? I was going to divorce him, but this will bind me to him forever--the judges wouldn't grant me a divorce in my state. And if I went to Stockholm, now, found the right sort of doctor, Erik would know no matter how discreet I was about it. He would suspect, and he would turn my life into a living hell--as if it wasn't a hell right now!_

_And if it was yours, wouldn't it have aborted already? Am I going to give birth to a deformed monster? And be bound to it forever, too, as a punishment for our sins? Imagine me, spoon-feeding a drooling imbecile until I am old and gray, my life wasted caring for a creature that should never have been born? I am this close to throwing myself into the falls, Torsten. What shall I do?"_

"A monster," I whispered, letting the letter fall from my hand.

"To this day, I'm not sure who the father was," Torsten said quietly, the bottle ringing against the rim of his glass as he refilled it with shaking hands.

"A drooling imbecile," I whispered, gazing at my reflection in the rusty old mirror beside me. 

"Your grandfather never knew, either. No one except Margit and I. And the revenge she took on me--" he sipped from his glass, a little champagne spilling out of the corner of his mouth. 

"A creature that should never have been born," I murmured, smashing my fist into the mirror, not feeling pain even as my knuckles bled, even as I let the mirror crash onto the floor, seven years of bad luck shattering around us. 

"It was she who had me committed," Torsten said, setting his glass down, swaying with his hands upon his knees, now hysterical himself from remembered trauma. "And she told the doctors. Told them everything, on the condition that they didn't tell anyone else. And that's why--" he made a snipping movement with his fingers. "So, there you have it."

"That fucking bitch," I said, coldly, calmly, steadily. Nothing and everything made sense all at once; I downed my glass and refilled it. "I don't suppose any of us will ever know, now," I said. 

"Do you hate me now?" he asked, not looking up at me, his voice quiet, childlike, feminine. 

I laughed, an awful, broken laugh, snorting champagne into my sinuses, tears falling out of my eyes. "What point is there? You've only confirmed what I'd always suspected; that my parents would have hated me, would have destroyed me had they lived. They would've taken my behaviour as a sign of mental retardation," I laughed bitterly, wiping my eyes. "And they would've put me away, oh, Torsten--if it hadn't been for you, I--" my voice broke; I was weeping too violently to speak.

"Come here, my child," he said and gathered me into his arms, holding me tight.

 _My child._ I screamed into his suit, screamed from the bottom of my lungs, from the very bottom of my hatred, howling, so angry, now. "What's the point of even speculating? You've been the only true father I've ever had, the only one who's ever loved me like one," I sobbed. "If I had had a choice, I would've chosen you, out of all the stupid idiots on this blasted estate, I--"

"My Laura," he whispered, his voice wet from tears. "My Laura, my Laura," and he kissed my tears from my face, swallowed up my sobs with his mouth, drinking in my shock, my terror. My father, my one true father, and I wished I was indeed the fruit of his loins, the fruit of incest who had found her only true happiness in incest in turn; I felt so cursed it had to be true. I hurt everywhere, down in the very bottom of my soul, in my every limb, a girl made of hatred, of pain.

"Hurt me, Daddy," I keened, clawing at his shirt; "Hurt me like you've never hurt me before. I want the pain to end. I can't take it. I can't."

"I shall, I shall," he said, now weeping openly himself. "God," he sniffed. "I always wanted to tell you, but I was never quite sure; oh, Laura. It's why I couldn't kill you, you see, even if you took my fortune from me," he laughed bitterly.

"And tomorrow, that fortune will pass to the creditors," I laughed hysterically, "this house, and everything in it."

"But we are better than that, better than the rest of this benighted family," he said and rocked me in his arms violently, as if lulling a child to sleep. "We have lived more than they ever did, Laura; we have lived. And tonight, we'll show them, my love, we will show them all."

"No more talk," I said, shaking my head, wiping tears and phlegm from my face. "Let's get started."

***

We bathed together, the slowest, most luxuriant bath we had ever had; like sacrificial victims preparing to meet their gods, we purified ourselves, each other completely. But only on the outside: I had wondered if Torsten would give me an enema, but we decided on the lightest of rinses instead. Just as he had taught me: the right amount of water to keep the surfaces of the ass clean enough for maximum sensation, but not to make one too sore or to destroy all flavour. And indeed, what would we have to worry about, now, even if we did end up making a mess? Stomach upsets or infections would not concern us in the grave. 

And for a long time, he held me underneath the shower, letting it wash my anxiety from me. I felt that with every new spray of water, with every cloud of soap suds that flowed down the drain he was sloughing an old fear from me, scrubbing away the new disappointments, the horrors of my birth until only the Laura he knew remained. Not the monster my mother had thought I'd be, the unwanted brat who had bound her to a husband she did not love; not the abnormal deviant Segert had sought to kill. Out of all the people in this world, only Torsten had ever known the true Laura, and this devastated me.

I told him all this, and clutched at him furiously so that he would kiss me; I was still empty, hungry.

"You are nothing but _my_ little Laura, now," he murmured, as if chanting a spell. "My little empress. Nothing else matters now, nothing."

And he was no longer Torsten the wastrel, the weakling, either; he had been raised to glory, to manhood by his fathering of me. With each caress, each scrub, the firm way he held me he became a man greater, stronger; it was his care that made him powerful, an adult instead of the wayward son he had been. My childhood, my weakness, my inexperience had given him the chance to become the man he now was--I was the one who had given him a chance to prove himself, to become the protector, the mentor, the teacher, the greatest of lovers. 

And there we stood, at the height of our powers, the heads of the Barring clan, about to plunge our bloodline into endless night. But not without fire and rage, sex and violence, sturm und drang: tonight, we were to blaze bright.

"We're _disgustingly_ clean, you know," Torsten said as we towelled off.

"But for us, this is perverse, isn't it?" I said as I spread my legs on the toilet seat.

"You have a point," he said and knelt down to shave me.

And he worshipped my vulva, bidding farewell to it with his kisses, caresses after he had shorn it of hair; for the better part of an hour, he spent feasting on me, fingering me. He drew orgasm after orgasm from me, as easily as he pulled strings of my sweetness from me, feasting upon them like sugar; piss and ejaculate he drew from me, washing me with his mouth, with water until I was completely clean, empty, glowing from his love.

"Daddy's little baby pussy," he sighed against my mound, resting his head on my belly, his voice slurred from how his jaw must have ached. "This has to have been my favourite taste in the entire world, you know," he murmured. "A young girl's fresh, smooth pussy, when it's all sweet like this, just upon the cusp of bleeding. But you added another dimension to it, you know," he said, looking up at me, his eyes twinkling.

"And what's that?"

"Champagne piss," he said, relishing the words with a wet, sensual hiss. "I studied it, you know. Everything else tastes too sweet or too acidic once it's passed through the body. But a good, dry champagne-flavoured piss from a healthy young girl's pussy--" he moaned in delight, planting a wet kiss on my pussy's lips. "Heaven."

"And now, it'll never be a woman's pussy," I murmured, lost in thought. "To think of it--you will never see it swell and droop, never have it grow slack from children. It'll always be a child's pussy." And that's how I wanted to go: a child, forever the perverse innocent. Adulthood was not what I wanted: forget the hussars, I wanted to die when I was still _truly_ young, age never having touched me with its ugly, crippling fingers. "Give me the mirror."

"Here you are, m'am," Torsten said, like some eighteenth-century courtier in a dirty engraving, holding a mirror up to his mistress's freshly-shaven sex, her freshly rinsed ass. 

I traced my smooth cleft, adoring the exquisite softness of it, the sensitivity of it, seeing what Torsten saw in it, its purity still miraculously untainted after all we had gone through. "It's pristine," I murmured. "After all this time." So red and so swollen, gleaming, so beautiful; the sweetest, ripest of fruits for my father to take, he and I adoring it in silence for long moments. 

Finally, I took both mirror and razor from him. "Now let me see yours, Daddy."

And an equal amount of time, I spent shaving his ass, his genitals, kissing him all over. I could never get enough of the silken softness of the skin over his cock and his balls, so tender and vulnerable no matter how often he had used his cock as a weapon, no matter how well I knew the pain it could give me. I tried so very hard not to make him come, and I knew he was straining as well: I knew exactly how close to climax the act of shaving could bring him, relishing way he shook, holding up his legs as I kissed the bud of his ass.

"Please, Laura," he hacked out from between clenched teeth, his cock already having drawn a wet stripe over his belly. "I'll let you lick it more later, I promise," he said as he let go of his legs and leaned down to kiss me. "Let's get dressed."

We did so ritualistically, each of us withdrawing to a room of our own to groom ourselves for the big night. I took longer than he did, of course; he prepared us dinner while I coiffed my hair and put on my make-up. After all, this was the most important event of our lives; it wouldn't do to arrive looking anything less than perfect. I had hesitated for a while about what I would wear, but in the end, the choice had been obvious: instead of an evening gown, I wore the most doll-like, frilly white dress, similar to the one Torsten had made me wear when he had prostituted me at the Peacock. Had I dressed like a grown woman, it would have been far less perverse, I reasoned; this way, I reaffirmed my identity as that of the eternal girl, the child untainted by the world.

Only through Torsten's debauchings had I become this pure, purer than I had ever been as a child; only through him, had I shed all these inhibitions and rules society sought to impose on children. Only through his coaching had I regained the true innocent state where I did not discriminate between purity and filth, between right or wrong; only through him had I re-entered the true, amoral, animal state of a human being at its birth.

I descended the staircase in my dress and my knee socks, my Mary Janes loud on the stairs; betuxedoed, Torsten leaned against the door with his hands in his pockets, smoking, whistling at me.

"You're looking up my skirt."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," he laughed and took me by the hands. "Let me look at you," he said with true fatherly pride, beaming from happiness. "My Laura."

I looked at him up and down in turn, feasted my eyes upon the perfect cut of his white tie and tails, the way the ensemble licked his hourglass waist and flared at the beautiful curve of his hips. "I have the handsomest Daddy in the whole wide world," I said, my voice young, light.

He offered me his arm. "Dinner is served."

I sniffed the air; there was a distinct smell of smoke coming from the kitchen. "Oh, Daddy. You burned the roast."

"Damn it." He let go of me and rushed into the kitchen, and I couldn't help but laugh as he struggled with the oven mittens in his tuxedo, like a gangly penguin on thin ice. We'd bought the roast cooked from the village and had only needed to warm it up again in the oven, but trust him to make a mess of even that, always having had servants or mistresses to do his cooking for him. 

He looked a little sheepish as he scraped the scorched parts off the roast. "It's still edible," he mumbled.

"Let me," I said and cut it for us. "Never let a playboy into the kitchen."

"You only love me for my cock," he mock-sulked and took his seat at the table.

"That's right," I laughed and served us. 

It was the simplest of dinners, but for a last meal, it was sumptuous. He'd never made an effort before, and that made even burnt roast and canned peas taste delicious; I reached out to wash them down with more champagne.

"No more," he said. "I want you to be able to feel it all," he said. "And don't eat too much. I don't want you to fall asleep either."

"Yes, mother," I rolled my eyes and switched to water instead.

When we had finished, smoked, washed our hands, I put a record on: our last waltz. We danced in the grand ballroom all by ourselves, slow, long; the afternoon light threw our silhouettes across the floor, our shadows rehearsing hauntings to come. For it felt to me as if our spirits would keep on dancing here forever, the last Barrings haunting those who would set foot here after us. Even once this house had turned to dust and the forest had taken over, I knew we would keep on dancing amidst the pines, the birches, the moss and the lichen, terrifying children and possessing women with burning, erotic visions, invisible caresses in the night. 

Torsten danced me passionately and I responded to his each step with equal passion; we made love standing up, body against body, flowing together through the room and each other. For a moment, I forgot everything, so lost in the swelling music, the violins that tore at my heart, made my throat choke with tears: my father's arms carried me through the pain, my father's elegant, lithe arms and legs guiding my little body, his erection a warm promise against my belly. I gave myself to him and he spun me, gathering strength from the strength I surrendered unto him, using the entire weight of his body to move me, to possess me. It was as if by the force of his desire he could imprint our footsteps onto the floor forever, so that one might step inside and read the words: _Here, Torsten Henrik Barring clove unto his daughter; here, Laura Erika Barring gave herself to sin willingly, in utmost laughter, joy and delight._

"Just like the day you rescued me," I murmured and swooned into his arms; forever, forever I would keep spinning and whirling and swirling around him, long after our bodies were gone. 

"The day you saved me, my child," he said softly, pulling back to nuzzle my temple. "It's strange; I grew up here, but never thought of it as home. Do you feel the same way?"

I shook my head. "The only home I ever had was with you, Daddy," I said, looking into his eyes, laughing as he twirled me. "I mean it."

He gathered me against himself, his arm wonderful, firm, sure around my waist. "I could say the same of you."

And now, the waltz died; there was but the scraping of the needle on the record. He took my hand and kissed it, bowing deeply before me; I answered his bow with the most perfect of court curtseys. 

He held my hand in his and rubbed it with his thumb for a long while, smiling as he looked into my eyes. There was a spiritual glow to his face, his beauty never having looked more unearthly; his demon eyes glittered with the warmth of one who knows he's going home. 

"Come, my child. It's time."

***

We made love for the last time in my bedroom, upstairs, still a child's room unchanged. All my dolls, dressed as adventuresses and vamps still sat on the windowsill, watching us quietly as Torsten embraced me in front of the full-length mirror.

"My little Laura is all grown up," he said, smiling over my shoulder, and despite the pallor of his face, he did not look a day older. 

I leaned back into his arms and sighed in joy. "And now you've come to take me away."

"Yes, my darling," he chuckled. "Yes, I have. But first, I'm going to make love to you," he said and brought his hands to my breasts, squeezing them until I shivered from pain against his back, against the firmness of his body, against his erection.

"Hurt me," I whispered.

"I shall."

And as soon as he said it, I began to struggle, to resist; his laughter of joy echoed off the windows, loud, elated. He loved this as much as I did, loved each one of my screams as he sucked them from my mouth, as he bit me and groped me. He pulled off my shoes, socks, ribbons until I was only wearing my dress and my panties, squirming in his arms, panting against him.

"Daddy, no!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and he laughed at each cry, adoring them, riding them, his desire mounting and mounting with each glorious moment of molestation I gave him. "No, no!" I sobbed, the perfect picture of the child being taken by force, so horrible, so awful my pussy soaked through my panties, so wonderful his pupils were dilated with feverish joy.

"Daddy, _yes,_ " he said as he slapped me, squeezed my breasts, panted in my ear, drunk from happiness; "there's no turning back, now," he purred, his voice rich from cruel tenderness. Finally, he held my head up by the hair, forcing me to face the mirror. "Is this what you want, hmm?" he crooned and slipped his hand into my panties. "For Daddy to touch you here?"

"No!"

He pulled his wet hand out and slapped my cheek. "Don't lie to me. You've been teasing me all day, showing off those big titties of yours, flashing your pussy at me when you walked down the stairs," he snarled, squeezing my pussy in his hand until I whimpered in pain against him. "You-want Dad-dy to fuck-you," he sing-songed, wet and disgusting in my ear.

"Stop it!" I squirmed, my shrieks shot through with laughter; I thought I might dissolve here from the sheer joy of the play, atomise into the air a spray of delight.

"But why would I, when you enjoy it so much?" he asked and lifted his hand out again, smearing his wet fingers across my lips, pushing them past my teeth so that he might choke me with them. "When your little pussy's this wet? Hmm?"

My heart fluttered against my ribs as I tasted my sweetness; my pussy clenched and clenched, so eager to be filled, but I wanted to stretch this moment out like toffee, spin it out like candy floss, oh, just keep on being molested forever. It hurt me that now that I finally knew he was my father, knew it in my blood and my bones, our first fuck with me knowing this would be our last. He had always known, yet I hadn't; I wanted to relish this as long as I could, to keep the fire burning as long as I could, basking in the beauty of our sin perfected. I wanted to trap this moment in amber, my demon-father with his hand again sneaking between my legs; wanted to suspend us in time and space, immortalise the glory of our incest. So I continued to struggle, to squirm, even as I heard his breath rasping in his chest, felt his strength waning a little.

"You have left me no choice but to tie you up, my child," he tutted, his bow tie askew, a strand of hair falling to his temple, over its bulging veins. 

"Please!" I shrieked, twisted only so that I could keep on looking at his beauty, at the stains of lipstick I had made on his shirt front, at the flickering blue waters of his eyes. His eyes, his eyes; deep, I drank from them, the fountains of my life, my joy.

"I thought you'd like that idea," he laughed with his hand over my jaw, pursing my lips out with his fingers, kissing me wetly.

And there, he took up a long coil of rope--he had brought this, too, beforehand--and strung me up by my wrists from one of the beams in the ceiling. "The advantages of an attic room," he laughed as he pushed me around so that I was sent swinging, screaming, tiptoeing upon the floor. He had framed this image perfectly: we were still positioned right in front of the mirror so that we could see everything, so that these images would be the last ones we ever saw, the last ones our brains ever processed, our love at its cruellest, most beautiful.

"Watch," he said quietly and stood behind me, steadying me in front of the mirror. 

He took a hold of my dress and ripped it, ripped it to pieces with his bare hands so that he must have been hurting his palms, yet he wanted to prove his power: his ravishing, savaging power, this sexual power he was the living manifestation of, his breath hot from arousal as he stripped me. Oh, but I loved it, loved it, swooning from the thrill of it, my nipples hard and dark as he revealed them to the evening air.

I could hear that little moan that always indicated a pulse in his cock as he brought his hands to my panties once more. "These, too," he cooed, pulling them up so that my mound was squeezed and trapped by the fabric, he tugging upon the panties as I panted, whimpered in his embrace. "Watch, little Laura, watch."

And he slapped my pussy, slapped it through the panties, slapped it so violently I screamed; hard, brutal blows from his hand. His long, slender fingers reaching past the fabric to play with my pussy, to pinch its lips, to rip apart the fabric, rip, rip; his entire hand covering my vulva, his fingertips playing at my perineum, my sex so small against the hugeness of his hand. He threw aside the torn fabric and clasped me in his palm, so easily, all of me held up only by that one hand as he devoured my neck, biting it, marking it, each one of his bite-sucks sending a lash of pleasure-pain to my pussy. I could swear he felt it underneath his hand, that's how violently my pussy clenched at his cannibalism of me, my screams vibrating through my body, my ribcage singing against his chest.

"What's the matter, Laura? What's the matter?" he cooed, letting me dangle free for a while. "Look at yourself. Aren't you beautiful?"

"I--"

He tucked his chin over my shoulder. "Yes, you are. Look at yourself," he said gently, warmly, cupping my breasts in his hands. "Look at these beautiful breasts right here, and that lovely little slit down there, that curve of your hips, your waist," he sighed, the proud father on his daughter's big day: I hung there, my hair a golden cloud around my head, my belly quivering underneath his caress. "My little daughter is the prettiest girl in the world."

"If you say so," I gasped, not knowing what else to say.

"Nu-uh," he said, slapping my breasts. "Look at me and say it."

"I--I am the prettiest girl in the world," I murmured at our reflections. And why was it so hard to say that even now, now that nobody else could pass judgement, now that only Torsten's words mattered? Now that only what _I_ felt and said mattered? I loved him for this, loved him for reminding me of my power, my beauty at our very last moments, and set out to prove myself worthy of him. "I am the prettiest girl in the world," I said, now, with more defiance, my chin up. "I am. The prettiest girl. In the world!" I shouted into the mirror, becoming the goddess I saw reflected in his eyes, a lioness roused.

"That's more like it," he chuckled and kissed my cheek, his hands playing either side of my pussy. "And now it's time for Daddy to make you even prettier."

I closed my eyes; my breathing stopped. On my bed lay Torsten's long box, the long black leather box that contained his whips, his canes; I knew he would not spare me tonight, would give me more pain than he'd ever given me before. I wanted to be sick, wanted to come, wanted to run all at the same time; yet I was held in place by the ropes, by the weight of the blood that had settled into my hips, by the weight of his desire behind me. Always, always I had kept falling towards him, plunging into him, plummeting into him, down, down; as he let go of me, I was in freefall.

He spent a while picking and choosing; a little soft laugh from him told me he had made his choice. "Open your eyes," he said, wrapping his arm around me, holding the instrument he had chosen across my chest and over my shoulder.

"Oh, God," I whispered as I saw it. The rattan cane, his cruellest toy; I thought he would have started off with something softer, first, perhaps a crop or a flogger. Despite myself, I recoiled in fear, tensed in his arms.

"Kiss it," he said sternly and brought the cane to my lips. "Kiss it and say 'thank you, Daddy.'"

I choked, hesitating for a moment. His eyes widened in the mirror: he seemed to grow larger, stronger every time he fed on my pain in this manner, a psychic vampire gaining strength from my terror, my agony. 

"What's the matter?" he jeered. "Are you _scared?_ "

"Yes," I said, quietly. But I closed my eyes, forced myself to breathe and kissed the cane. "Thank you, Daddy."

"I'm going to make it so good for you," he murmured and kissed my cheek, his left hand stroking my pussy, tapping it, massaging it, his hips rutting against my back. "Going to wrap you up in red ribbons with this, my child. A pretty little package for me to open," he purred.

And I died in his arms at these words, died from the joy of pleasure-pain before he even struck me: I quit breathing and all I could hear was the swishing of his cane, even that a language I had learned by heart. That little warning swish, that teasing swish he knew would send me stiffening, stumbling upon my toes; now, he tickled the bare soles of my feet with the cane so that I yelped more, danced more, tossing to and fro.

"Stay still, now, my little princess, stay still," he sung, running the cane up the hollow of my spine, whisking it in my hair. "Shh."

I kept my eyes closed; my surprise when something far softer hit me made me open them again. He laughed at me through the mirror, his crooked teeth shining bright; he was swirling his flogger in his hand. "Only to warm you up, my sweet."

"You bastard!" I choked as he lashed me across the hips.

"Language!" he tutted, whipping me harder, several lashes against the buttocks, the warmth from his blows entwining with the warmth in my pussy, tingling, wonderful, sweet. And with this softer weapon, he prepared my body, bathing my thighs, my breasts, my belly, my pussy, my limbs with its blows until I glowed pink and warm all over. Bathing, yes: each one of his blows a hot blast of steam, opening my skin and relaxing my flesh, cleansing me for more pleasures to come; in this pain I floated, reeled like a sultana being massaged with fragrant ointments by loving handmaidens.

"Beautiful," he sighed, my father both the handmaiden and the sultan at once, the one preparing me for enjoyment and the one enjoying my flesh, the very depths of it so exquisitely perfumed with pain. He threw the flogger on the bed and ran his hands all over my body, caressing my now-sensitised skin, squeezing me, slapping me, pinching me until I was but a yielding, trembling mass of flesh in his arms. "Absolutely beautiful," he murmured, adoring my reflection.

"Fuck me," I slurred, my head lolling back over his shoulder, my mouth seeking his mouth. I was ready, so ready; could he not see it? He kissed me slowly, sucking a little upon my tongue, making my pussy pulse in desperation, my arousal now more painful than the blows he had dealt. "Please, fuck me," I moaned into his mouth.

"I want to fuck you so much," he said, his voice reedy with such honesty, such eagerness it made me ache. "But I want to make it last," he said, hugging me tight against himself, a man drowning. "Oh, Laura," he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut, his eyelashes glittering with tears. "I never want this to end."

He was so agitated, so close to breaking, so full of coiled energy I knew had to do something. Quickly, Laura, quickly, to spur him on before he collapsed; I had to remind him of why he was here. He was here to drive his power into me for one last time, and now I needed to summon up that power, to stir him into action once more.

"Then keep going, Daddy. Mark me. Show me."

"I will," he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. It saddened me when he took off his tailcoat and rolled up his sleeves, but he was gleaming from sweat and it was a hot day. Besides, now I could adore the beauty of his arms, the black lines of hair shadowing the sinewed, thin length of them, the grace of his hands as he twirled the rattan cane between his fingers. "Now, stand very still."

I closed my eyes and breathed.

His first blow was so awful I nearly passed out; I could not even make a noise for my pain. This was it, I thought; this his final, violent taking of me, such an utter possession of my body no ordinary sex could ever compare. Now that he didn't have to worry so much about my internal organs, he was far crueller with his strokes; yet I could sense he still avoided striking me across the kidneys, deliberately keeping me just on the edge of consciousness as he let the cane sing across my body. The pain was unimaginable, indescribable: all the hairs on my body stood on end, the pain electric, hideous as he wove his signature upon my skin, the calligraphy of the sadist. I twitched at first, then fell slack in my ropes, so slack that I heard him pause; he lashed me across my breasts to wake me up, so brutal he drew blood from one of my nipples. I would have asked him to stop, but was in too much pain to speak; my head lolled onto my chest and I was plunged into sweet, merciful darkness.

I do not know how long I spent unconscious; when I came to, I was on the floor, resting in his arms, my hands still bound with the silken rope. He was caressing my hair from my face, offering me sips of water, a little cocaine rubbed into my gums to take the edge off the pain. There were blood-streaks upon his shirt from where my back had brushed against it; his eyes were full of concern and I could see even he was terrified of what he had done. I had never seen that look upon his face, had never known a Torsten who had even considered he might have gone too far, but now that I did, he broke my heart.

"I'm all right, Daddy," I croaked out, clasping his hand.

"My Laura," he hugged me and rocked me in front of the mirror; "my sweet daughter," he sighed into my hair, clutching me like a doll in his arms, the boy-child who had broken his favourite toy. "I--"

"Shh, Daddy," I said, forcing out a little laugh at the absurdity of it all. "Please don't say you didn't mean to; I know you did. And I would've never forgiven you had you been gentler."

He sniffed in his tears, and I noticed there was a little cocaine on his moustache, too. He laughed and wiped his face, wiped his eyes, his nose. "You know, I never could tell which one of us was the bigger slut for pain," he said bluntly. "You're hopeless."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," I said and nuzzled his hand. "Will you fuck me, now?" I asked, blunt right back at him.

"You'd better believe it," he said as he freed my hands. "Undress Daddy."

I turned around in his arms and kissed him; in front of the mirror, I undressed him with a ritual slowness, freeing him of the remains of his tuxedo, tears welling up in my eyes as I did so for the last time. Never again would I see him dressed up to the nines, immaculate, exquisite, the tallest man in the room; now, there was only the warmth of his long, slim, naked body against mine.

And as I sat in his lap, I kissed his body, kissed it, cupped his muscles, his tendons, his loving, perfect, liberating flesh: possessed of a sudden madness, I wanted to devour him as he had devoured me, mouthing him, biting him, eating him up with my kisses. My Heavenly Father, my Holy Communion, our lovemaking always a transubstantation of the flesh, perfecting us, each fuck an apotheosis. And he let me glorify him by my consumption of him, resting languorous upon the floor as if he were the prey and I the she-wolf; I licked him and kissed him all over until I had tasted every pore upon his body, my tongue rough from his body hair, my jaw aching.

As I turned him over to kiss his ass, I burst into laughter. "You wore it, you dirty old bastard."

He squeezed his ass around the plug and rocked his buttocks playfully as he glanced at me over his shoulder. "I was tempted to wear the tail, too."

I smacked his ass. "Can I taste it?"

"Later." With a growl, he tackled me onto the floor. "Don't you dare think you can be on top tonight, girl. I'm in charge."

"Very well," I laughed and laid down on the floor. "Do your worst."

He leaned over me, kissing his way up my body, nipping purposefully at the welts he had made, sending me spasming, hissing, swearing in pain. "Just opening my package, you see," he purred. 

"I'm open," I breathed huskily underneath him, wrapping my legs around him, anointing his erection with the wetness of my pussy. "Can't you see?"

"Yes," he laughed and nuzzled my face. "Get up. I want to watch."

He arranged us so that we were kneeling in front of the mirror, I riding his cock in my pussy, trembling, gasping for air, hysterical from grief as I took him inside of my body for the last time. "Daddy," I cried, my voice little, young; "Daddy," like a child lost at the fair.

"I'm here," he said and held me tight, his arms crushing my ribs as he hugged me, slowly rolling into my body, his cock meeting the back of my womb again, again, again. That exact depth and speed of the thrust, he finding that perfect spot immediately, so soon because I was so open, so wet, so ready. Each single thrust of his struck gold through me, gold and cascades of iridescent joy; I shivered in his embrace, watching as the soft whiteness of my flesh shook, juddered with our movements.

"Please, Daddy. Please let me come."

"So soon?" he laughed, bringing his hands to my pussy, holding it open so that he could watch the entire length of his cock moving in and out of me, long strokes, long strokes to drive me mad from perfection. "Tell me how it feels, first."

"It feels so good, Daddy," I moaned, rocking upon him, giving him the confession he wanted, the confession that made his cock swell even further inside of my flesh. "Feels so good in my pussy, like waves, like honey and light--the colour of dragonflies' wings," I laughed, the child unafraid to talk in surrealities, for these surrealities were the truth. "Oh, Daddy, it feels _wonderful_."

"What does?"

"Your cock." I turned my head around so that I could look into his eyes, giving him the over-articulation he wanted, needed, the filth on top of the poetry. "I love the way your big cock feels in my little pussy when you fuck me, Daddy."

"Yeah?" he groaned, thrusting so deep into me I jerked in his arms, but I clung to him, thrusting right back.

"Yeah," I laughed. "Look at it," I said, spreading my pussy with him. "All swollen and wet. Does it feel good for you, too, Daddy?"

"It does, Laura, it does," he groaned, groaned louder as I squeezed his cock with my muscles. "It's the most perfect little pussy in the world," he said softly, his lips brushing against my ear. "Feels like honey for Daddy, too, and I can feel those waves going through me as well, every time you sit down on me like that." He laughed softly, in awe; he, too, now innocent and free. 

And now, I wondered if these weren't indeed the kinds of things the first lovers in the world had said to each other when spoken language had still been a new invention; whether language itself had been born from the need to speak of one's pleasure to one's beloved.

"You're so good to me, Daddy," I whispered against his mouth, twisting in his embrace, my limbs shaking from the strain; "the most perfect man, the most perfect, I--" but now I choked, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak. If language had been born from love, it was also love that slew language, going so far beyond it; there were no words for this, no words, only the perfection of his body against mine, he buried so deep within my flesh we were one.

"My daughter, my daughter, my daughter," he sobbed, now grabbing my hips and thrusting into me harder, mad from his fury. "My daughter."

"My father," I cried as I fell down onto my hands, my hair tumbling over my face as I pushed back into his thrusts, fucked him, fucked him with all my desperation, all my yearning, all my need. "I was born from your sperm," I keened, biting my lip. "Your cock, Daddy, your cock, this cock, oh, God, Daddy, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your cock--"

And he howled, pushing my head down with his hand, fucking me violently, so deep he hurt me, his balls slap-slap-slapping against my pussy; soon I could no longer hear anything apart from my own shouts, my cries, my howls as I came around his cock. His cock, his cock, the cock thanks to which I existed, the holy phallus I lived, breathed, revolved around; his sex, his body, his beauty, my father, my maker, my end. Tears streamed down my face as I screamed out my orgasm, screamed out all my rage, all my hatred, all my pain, all my love. I wished that he would impale me upon this cock, kill me with it, destroy me with it, slay me with this same instrument of pleasure through which I had come into this world.

"Daddy!" I could not stop crying, "Daddy!" and a thousand more repetitions of his name, his essence, all that he was to me, a rosary of love, ecstasy and anguish rolling from my lips onto the floor. And each cry, he beat out of me with his hips, his cock striking perfection through my pussy, through my womb, each blow echoing his name, his glory, his beauty through my flesh. My Daddy, my Daddy, my entire flesh ringing from my Daddy, all of me become but his name, but a song of his glory, the culmination of his existence.

He thrust into me so hard the floorboards creaked, so hard he bruised my cheeks, my hips; he groaned deep from his chest, his breath rattling with death as he poured his sperm into me, specks of his blood spattering onto the floor past my shoulder. Yet he kept on going, rasping, shouting in defiant rage even through his coughing fit, fucking me with such force I slid forwards on the floor, sobbing with his thrusts.

"Laura," he cried, worshipped me, clutched me, flowing into me a living wave, unable to stop moving. "Don't stop, please; please, don't ever stop," he keened, his hands shaking as he clutched my breasts, my hair, my face.

And I didn't; I kept moving my hips underneath him, kept milking his cock with my pussy to keep it hard, urging him on, coaxing his virility into tarrying awhile. "I love you," I gasped underneath him, "love you," I groaned through my teeth, said it with my body, with every slide of my pussy's muscles around his shaft, adoring him, as if with my pussy I could keep him alive a little longer. As long as we kept on fucking, we weren't dead, wasn't that so? So I kept going, squeezing around him, patting for him with my hands. "Stay, Daddy. Stay."

He let out a huffing laugh against my ear, rolling his hips, now. "Do you really want to taste Daddy's ass?" 

"Yes, please," I said, excited, like a child promised an ice cream.

I lifted my head and he was already holding the plug out to me, black and smeared richly from the secretions of his body: white, clear, caramel--as its perfection swirled into my mouth, I started to unravel again, a subtler orgasm, my pussy pulsing and pulsing around his prick. I howled around the plug, sending the spheres vibrating inside my skull; he tapped the plug's end to choke me with it and thrust into me, tapping and tapping, slapping my face until I was screaming, gurgling, coming so violently that he gasped in surprise.

"You nearly snapped it off again," he laughed, pulling the plug from my mouth as I was still whimpering underneath him.

"I wasn't expecting it," I slurred, panting on the floor. 

"That was beautiful," he said, grinned and threw the plug aside. "Now, come and lick Daddy's ass."

Even in this, he was merciful to me: he arranged himself so that he was lying on his side, facing the mirror, so that we could both watch as I feasted on his ass. I displayed him proudly, spreading his buttocks, now so close to the mirror it misted from my breath; I wiped it clean again so I could show him his true beauty. "It's the prettiest little pussy in the world," I murmured as I kissed it. "So pink, and so full from fucking," I sighed. 

"And do you like the taste, my child?" he asked ritually, rocking his hips and stroking his cock lazily, his lashes languid over his eyes.

"Of course I do, Daddy," I said, burying my tongue in the folds, making sure to clean each one with my tongue, groaning whenever I found a richer hint of flavour. "A little metallic, like blood; salty, earthy, delicious."

"Any herbal flavour left?" he laughed. 

"Let me see," I said and pulled his ass open with my fingers so that he lamented loudly, his balls lifting as I spread him wide and stuck my tongue as deep as it would go. And yes, yes, there, I found it; my tongue dipped into a streak of herbal, fresh darkness and I moaned in delight into his guts, this the answer he had been hoping for. I sobbed, there, pushed my fingers into him so that I might suck upon them, licking and sucking his taste, this sweetness of his shit never not a shock, never not a beautiful, erotic shock that sent electric tremors through my body. They had lied to us, the entire world had lied to us about this being a taste foul, awful; just as they had lied to us about all pleasure; all. We knew better than any of them, were so much better than them; and now, my tears flowed into my mouth and dissolved the taste of him from my tongue.

"Give me a cock," he groaned, his hand now faster on his cock, nodding towards the toy box. "I'm not going to leave this world un-fucked. Hurry."

"All right," I laughed and wiped my tears with the back of my hand, catching my breath. I picked up the medium-sized white dildo, the one I had used in my harness, and held it out to him. "Will this do?"

"No glycerine," he said, shaking his head. "Put it on the floor and make it ready for me."

I did as I was told. I balanced the dildo on the floor by its end, by its heavy balls and proceeded to fellate it with all my skill. I teased Torsten with the sight, rocking my ass, stroking the cock as if it was his: I gave it my best slide, my messiest, wettest sucks, making it gleam from my mouth. I choked myself on it deliberately so that I could coat it with thick, white mucus; I nearly threw up but kept going for the sake of my father's pleasure, his holy pleasure, rubbing my pussy furiously so that I could use my juices to anoint the dildo further.

"God," he groaned through his teeth, now squeezing the root of his cock, slapping it against his belly. "Suck on me instead," he said and sat on the dildo, sat on it so fast he must have been hurting himself. But I didn't have time to see if he had torn himself because now he was fucking my mouth, fucking my throat in front of the mirror; I regretted not being able to see myself, but this, too, was a part of his domination of me, denying me the sight as he made me into but a mouth to serve his cock. He rode the dildo deep, howling, lascivious, rocking his faggot's hips with a wild abandon, taking the cock and my mouth with whorish greed. 

"Lick it, lick it," he said and guided my mouth to his ass, so that I might taste the dildo as it slid in and out of him. And I adored this, stroking my own pussy as I tasted the depths of his flesh, the metal-salt-sugar of his caramel, whimpering underneath him. I licked the ring of his ass, licked as much of the toy as I could, slurping, huffing into his flesh, my face stinging from sweat and tears.

But the position was awkward and we couldn't maintain it for long; soon, he gathered me up with a kiss. "Sit on Daddy's cock," he murmured and gestured for me to get up. "I want you to see it going in your ass."

I stood up in front of him, teasing him a little as I scooped wetness from my pussy, turning around very slowly as I worked spit and pussy juice into my ass with my fingers. "Is this where you want to fuck me, Daddy?" I asked sweetly over my shoulder, rocking my ass, brushing my buttocks against his face.

"Yes, you little _slut,_ " he hissed in delight, spitting over my asshole and licking it, snorting into it. "Fuck me."

I faced the mirror and squatted over him, using my weight to lower myself onto his cock. It hurt, hurt so much to take his cock in just like this, even if he kept adding spit, even if he kept rubbing my pussy; yet I was damned if I was going to turn to glycerine, now. I howled in shock as he dipped his cock into my pussy a little to wet it, then back into my ass, then pussy, then ass again--I had never allowed him to do this before simply because of the risk of inflammation, knowing how even mere irritation from ordinary sex could give me a painful infection for weeks. But now, what did we have to worry about? I laughed, a broken-glass laugh, my breath sparkling from cocaine and champagne as he slid into my ass once more. I rubbed my pussy, my little pussy about to die, adored its fullness, its flush in the mirror for the last time in my life.

"Fuck," I groaned, lifting such thick strings of sweetness from my pussy, astounded at how swollen my folds were, how open the mouth of my vagina, my entire vulva like a red, wet flower blossoming from the intensity of his penetration. It was so strange, so strange that my pussy should be at its most beautiful, so open and glorious as it was my _ass_ his cock slid into, yet it did not feel empty, hungry, not empty at all. 

"That's what I wanted you to see. Your pussy always looks so amazing when you get fucked in the ass," Torsten murmured, sharing my adoration; "so flushed, your clitoris like a little prick," he laughed, caressing the root of it softly. "You're such a little faggot."

"I take after my father," I laughed at him over my shoulder, then gasped as he slid past the last gate of my flesh behind the womb, so hard, so impossibly long, always like an iron bar in my guts. How something that felt so perfectly sweet inside my pussy no matter what could feel so violent in my ass, I had never understood, but loved nevertheless: I mewled a little, unable to lower myself fully on him, that's how much it hurt at first.

"There we are," he said gently, rubbing my clitoris, kissing the star on my neck. "Settle down on Daddy. Ride Daddy. I'm your horsie, remember?"

"Daddy, you're silly!" I laughed, and that laugh made me slide down on him completely: I whimpered, shuddered, my bent legs spasming, quaking open and closed as I settled into his lap.

He spread my legs on either side of his, holding me close, enjoying the feel of my body upon his as we sat there thus, my weight pressing the dildo deeper into his body. "That feels so good," he murmured, hugging me against himself. 

"What does?" I prompted, with a dirty twinkle in my eye--I knew he wanted to tell me, to relish his faggotry for one last time.

He laughed against my mouth, purring. "A big fat cock in my ass when I'm fucking yours, you little brat. And this lovely, lovely little pussy right here," he murmured, rubbing it still, "dripping all over my balls. Shall we have a look to see if we can get you even wetter? Hmm? Make you gush a little for Daddy?"

"I don't know if I can," I said, suddenly unsure; it was impossible to know in advance when I would come so hard I ejaculated. I usually did so only when I was extremely aroused, frantic; now, the soft haze from the pain and my first orgasms had made me calm, far less furious.

He just licked his fingers and returned them to my clitoris, rolling his hips. "Then I'm going to have to _make_ you, don't I? Fuck you so hard you'll _piss_ ," and the way he hissed it made my pussy clench and clench underneath his hand. "So that you'll spray out the rest of that champagne. Hmm? What do you say?"

"Daddy--!"

"Right the first time," he laughed and slapped my pussy, beginning to fuck me in earnest. 

And he knew exactly what he was doing; even if the position strained me because of the way I had to squat over him, his cock was pressing against the exact spots that always made me gush. He forced me to ride him, made me use the last of my strength to fuck his cock, to satisfy him; he kept one hand on my pussy and clawed at my back, my breasts, tore at me with his nails so violently some of the welts began to bleed once more. And I loved this, loved each scratch, each pain-jolt meeting the violent, white-hot flashes of his cock within my body, sobbing as my orgasm began to rise and rise within me, from that spot behind my womb where Divinity itself lived. He clawed at me with both hands, now, bit me, bit me so hard he left marks, tore into my welts so that his lips were red from my blood; hysterical, I watched myself being eaten, consumed, swallowed, fucked, taken by his mouth and his cock.

"Rub your pussy," he snarled as he took my hips and forced me to ride him faster, guiding the rhythm, so roughly he must have been hurting himself, his breath ragged in his throat. "Rub your pussy while I fuck your ass, you little whore," he groaned, "make yourself come on Daddy's cock."

"Daddy, you're hurting me," I howled, my forehead and my palm against the mirror, the pain, the pleasure shooting up my spine as white light, light, light--

"Good!" he shouted, yanking me back with his arm around my throat, now, fucking me so brutally my pussy, my ass, his own ass made horrible, sloshing, farting noises; he spat in my ear and snarled. "Come for Daddy. That's an order!"

With one last scream, I threw myself back on him, ululating as I fucked myself on his cock, coming, coming. I rubbed my pussy so hard I hurt myself, tugging the hood of my clitoris back so hard it burned, but now, I didn't have to care. I looked down at myself, and for the first and last time in my life, I saw my own pussy clearly as it ejaculated; I howled at the sight. Just below my clitoris, the mouth of my urethra spasming, spasming, and there, there, the spray: I drew in a deep breath and groaned it out from low in my guts, vibrating the sound in the back of my throat and my head for maximum pleasure, for maximum force as I sprayed the mirror with my orgasm. I splashed all over, spraying my thighs; my white and soft body tossing, spasming upon his darker, thinner one, our reflection distorted by the liquid, melting into an Impressionist nightmare.

"More," he snarled, slapping my pussy violently. "Piss."

And helpless, I kept coming, coming, and he kept fucking, fucking: I had no choice. Now, I groaned low and deep once more and forced myself to piss, a clear, bright arc washing my ejaculate off the mirror, Torsten howling deep in his belly as he watched. He clawed at my hips, each deep blow of his cock pressing on my bladder so hard a new spray burst out of me, he sobbing in disbelief behind me.

"Laura, Laura," he cried, scooping my piss into his mouth with his hand, slurping it frantically, his belly rippling behind me; he coughed, swallowed my piss as he came inside my ass, cupping and lapping my piss into his mouth again and again, his entire body spasming violently in the shock of his pleasure. "Laura, Laura," he moaned and clutched me in his fever, his eyes wide and bright as the liquid finally sluiced so far down the mirror I could see him clearly again. "How could I ever repay you?"

I was a panting, shattered wreck in his arms, collapsed against him, slipping on him in the wet mess, my legs cramping. "I don't know, Daddy, I--oh, God, no, you're not--"

"Yes," he laughed as I felt a warm, liquid pressure expanding in my ass, warmer, more voluminous than his sperm could ever be. "Yes, my little darling," he said and held his hand to my belly, "yes."

"You are a sick old fuck," I told him, the terrified child so shamed; I daren't move at all lest I spilled his piss out. "You're awful, you're horrible, you're disgusting," I simpered, leaning back against him, relishing my fate. 

"Yes. Yes, I am," he crooned. "Now. Tell me. What's your little ass full of, right now? Three things."

I teased him a little; I had to. I put my hand to my mouth, the child pondering, wondering: "I think I've forgotten, Daddy."

"No, you haven't. We just haven't played this game for a long time, but just like riding a bicycle, you never forget a thing like that. It's the delicious-most, yummiest-most thing you and I make together, remember?"

I nodded, over-eager. "I think I do know now, Daddy."

"Good girl." He smiled and took me by the hips, spread me and lifted me up until only the tip of his cock was nestled within my ass, a little fluid trickling out already. "Now, I'm going to count to three. On three, you will say it, and I will pull out. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"One," and he swayed a little so that I giggled; "two," and he bit my arm until I squealed, "three!"

"Piss and shit and come!" I laughed, shrieked in disgusting, childish delight as all three burst explosively out of my ass. I gaped, gaped open and red and wide, my ass heaving, farting, the mess splashing onto the floor before us. "Oh, God!" I screamed.

"God's not here, my child, remember?" Torsten laughed. "Go on. There's a little more left," he said, tugging my ass open with both hands. "Push."

And there, I looked inside my own guts, completely without shame as I pushed out piss and shit and come, our holy triple elixir onto the floor from my abused ass, my pussy slurping, gleaming red and full as I emptied myself this way. My father and I combined, our filth, our pleasure all mixed together into this one substance, symbolic of our transdescension of all taboos: I sobbed in pleasure as I watched it, watched my ass close into a tiny little bud once more, the way Torsten smoothed it tenderly with his fingertips.

We fed this elixir to one another, sucking it off each other's bodies; the most perverse way of cleaning each other, sucking the filth into our mouths, swallowing our sickness. _Soixante-neuf,_ we lay there, he lapping at my pussy and my ass and my buttocks; I cleaned his cock so thoroughly with my mouth not a trace of filth remained.

"How on earth can you still be hard?" I laughed as I collapsed beside him, letting his cock slip from my mouth.

He nestled his head against my pussy. "I took a little pill. It's meant to give you priapism to the point where it gets dangerous and they might have to cut your cock off," he snorted. "I'd always wanted to try it, so I thought it was now or never. And I want to show up at Hell's door looking my best. Give the devils something to be jealous about."

"You will," I said and kissed his cock. 

"And now we're done, aren't we, Daddy?" I sighed quietly.

He played with the down on my belly, nuzzling into my thighs the way he always did before falling asleep there. "I think we are, my child."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"None."

"Neither do I," I said, defiant, casting out all doubts from my mind. "Where are the letters?"

"A last smoke, first," he said and dug out his silver cigarette box. 

So there we sat, on my child's bed, holding each other, smoking as night fell. 

"I was sure I had something else to say," I mumbled as I let ash fall from my cigarette onto the carpet. "Is there any perversion we missed?"

"Best not to think about things like that," he laughed, a little dryly; "I wouldn't be able to bear it if we'd forgotten something."

He gazed out of the window; we had finally reached that short spell of darkness that remained on either side of midnight this time of the year. He held me in his arms and I rested there, both of us quietly watching the cascading falls. This water would keep on flowing forever, long after we were gone; no matter what the situation in Europe, the midnight sun would still take over in about a week and bathe the valley in perpetual light. You'd still be able to walk in the woods and find your way at night; a month from now, you would be able to pick blueberries at three o'clock at night.

"Blueberries," I murmured.

"What's that?"

"I was picking blueberries that day I came home from school, when I was seven," I said. "Do you remember?"

He threw back his head and laughed. He collected the cigarettes from us, stumped them, then hugged me tight, rocking me in his arms. "Yes. Yes, I do remember. I thought you'd been painting your lips, you see. My little baby vamp."

"I had," I said, nuzzling his face, adoring the rasp of his moustache against my cheek. "I would've done it more carefully had I known you were coming."

"You looked beautiful," he said quietly, looking at my face up and down, his gaze lingering upon my lips, my eyes, my hair. "You always did."

Now, I could no longer hold back my tears--and why hold them back at a moment like this? "And I had never seen a man as handsome as you, Daddy," I said. "Every time I saw you, I felt this tightness in my chest, right here," I said, taking his hand between my breasts. "My heart was always pounding, the moment I smelled your cologne."

"And every time I saw you, I wondered if you were mine," he said, kissing my forehead. "I don't doubt it, now. I've been thinking about it, and I'm absolutely certain it was me. Margit would not have had me sterilised had she not been sure. She was afraid I'd do it again."

"That's what I thought," I said and nuzzled his cheek. "I should hate you for not having told me earlier, but what's the point?"

He shook his head. "I didn't know earlier. It took a while for me to understand it myself. But what matters is that I love you, and that I have always loved you." He took my hand and kissed it.

"And I love you, Daddy," I said and kissed his hand in turn, my heart light. "So much."

We lay there on the bed for a while longer; we knew we had to finish soon. We tarried, perhaps out of some small fear of the unknown, perhaps out of the need to share each other's warmth as long as we could. The darkness wouldn't last long, and we had to end it all before dawn.

The clock struck midnight, and still we lay there; I became eighteen, became a millionairess, but that no longer mattered: only our final act mattered.

There was a bright flash in the sky--two shooting stars, falling down from the heavens, disappearing over the falls. 

Both of us laughed out loud in astonishment. "That's our cue," Torsten said.

"Have you laid out the charges?"

"Mm-hmm. But I lied. One more last cigarette."

And with that last-last cigarette, he lit the fuse that travelled from this room and branched into all the other rooms in the house, to each building upon the estate. The entire house reeked of gasoline, naphthaline; I didn't know if it had been dynamite in those carts he had taken to the stables and I hadn't asked. 

"The letters," I said and dug them out of the pocket of his tuxedo. 

He clasped his hand over mine. "Let's do it properly," he said and kissed me. "Come," he said and arranged himself comfortably on the bed, his cock still half-erect. "Sit on me."

As I kissed his cock into full hardness, I heard a loud boom and a crash, something that could only have been the sound of a small building collapsing--it _had_ to have been dynamite in the stables, then. The earth was still shaking, I laughing as I pulled my mouth off Torsten's cock and sat on it. "Read mine first, Daddy."

He sat up so that we were embracing, my arms and my legs around him, his cock deep in my pussy, my heartbeat against his. He cleared his throat and began, with the pride of a father reading an essay his daughter had got full marks for.

_My sweet, sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father,_

_Thank you for everything._

_You and you alone, out of all the people in this world let me be myself, let me grow up into the Laura I truly was, and let me be her until the very end. And even if I did not live to an old age, you gave me so much of your experience, so much of your knowledge, so much of your capacity for pleasure that I do not regret a single day of it; each day has been rich and meaningful. I know for a fact that most women, millionairesses or not, are never allowed a life as full, as full of freedom as the life you have given me. You saved me from being suffocated by institutions, by schools and asylums and families; you saved me from unhappy marriages, from children, from obligations towards a society that has never understood people like us._

_The pathetic wretches who call themselves philanthropists spend all their lives helping out the poor and the needy, those losers who can't appreciate what they are given, parasites who keep sucking them dry without an ounce of gratitude or understanding. Yet in your focusing on corrupting me, debauching me and fulfilling me, you have done more good than those people ever will in decades of wasting their favours on fools. And for your guidance and your companionship, I am eternally grateful._

_You have been the best father a girl could ever wish for, the only true friend I have ever had, a lover beyond compare. And now that we are leaving this world, I want you to know that my life has been complete, beautiful, perfect, lacking nothing. We did it together, you and I; we pressed out every ounce of golden pleasure from each day we were given, filled our chalice to the overflowing and drank it dry._

_We did it, Father; we made it. They never caught us. We succeeded, we won._

_And now we shall die as we should, at the peak of our powers and our grace; you still the most handsome man, the most beautiful woman I've ever known, and I the child, the little girl untainted by age, forever the maiden goddess._

_I love you, my sweet Daddy, my Heavenly Father, and I will see you in Hell. Its throne awaits us, does it not?_

_Father Hades, your Persephone places her hand in yours and cannot wait to ascend._

_Your little girl, forever and always,_

_Laura Erika._

His voice choked, now; the piece of paper trembled and he was coughing into his hand, another cough full of blood. "Laura--"

"Shh," I said, kissing him, kissing him until my mouth was wet from his blood; now the smoke was entering our room, making it even more difficult for him to breathe. "It'll stop hurting soon, Daddy," I said, weeping myself as I wiped his tears from his eyes, kissed them from his cheeks. "Now, let me read yours."

He sniffed and handed the letter to me, taking deep, shuddering breaths, his arms firm and tight around my back, his head pressed against my breasts. I caressed his head and rocked him against myself as I read his words, dizzy from lack of oxygen, dizzy from my tears.

_Cleopatra Philopator, Glory of her Father, Love of her Father, my beloved, beloved Daughter--_

_This may be the morphine talking, but if one cannot be sentimental, emotional and Romantic on the cusp of one's death, when can one be? Especially since you have always understood these things in me, and these are the very same qualities I have always loved in you. And I know you will understand me now, as you have always understood me, with the same knowledge of the soul we have shared ever since you were born._

_What to say? What haven't I said before? All the observations I have ever made of you still hold true. I saw your potential from the start, but even in my wildest dreams, never did I imagine we would be able to get away with all these things we've done. But look at us now! At first, I doubted myself, my fantasies of you as but another folly I would amuse myself with and then find empty on the inside, realising my dreams were but that: dreams._

_But not with you, Laura. Never you. You became so much more than just a child to debauch; so many times I've told you that not only were you the perfect partner for me, but also the female half of my self, the woman I had always wanted to be. It was as if I was watching myself grow as I watched you grow into the woman you are now, and with each new pleasure, each new conflagration of desire you experienced, I felt those self-same flames in my own body. And whenever you were hurt, I was hurt, too; in this we were never separate, but the same human being split into two bodies, the same soul moving through two people at once._

_But when I found you, Laura, that soul in me was dying; Torsten Barring thought he had experienced all the pleasures life had to offer, and he was consumed with apathy. Perhaps I had only become the male, the inanimate body without a soul, an empty shell--I am thinking of the way the Hindus speak of the life force as being essentially feminine, and in you I found it, my Shakti. In you I emptied myself, poured all of my self into you, and in turn you became my skeleton, my musculature, my skin holding me upright and together, enabling me to move, live, laugh, ravish again. I was a corpse, and you returned me to life; your yearning gave me a purpose, a project. Oh, I have to laugh: isn't this what people say happens when they become parents?_

_But you were so much more to me than a mere daughter, my child, so much more; in a sense, you gave birth to me, a new Torsten created by your desire, a new Torsten taking shape in the reflection I saw in your lust-dilated eyes. I was astonished at this new man, at the strength you gave him with each one of your submissions, your body my kingdom, your pleasure my crown and sceptre._

_I thought to perfect you, and you perfected me instead. It's only fitting that now that we have done it all, we should move onto a new plane of existence. Our souls--nay, our one, undivided **soul** is ready._

_My conqueror. My queen. My empress._

_We stand upon the threshold of an entirely new adventure; a new door is opening for us, and my heart aches from joy in the knowledge that I can embark on this journey with your little hand in mine._

_I love you. Always have, and always will, until the last flame of Hell is extinguished and all is silent._

_Yours yesterday, today and unto eternity,_

_Your Daddy._

I let go of the letter and hugged him, howled against him, both of us weeping openly; now, the windows started to shatter downstairs as their frames snapped, the entire building creaking, black smoke billowing in through the door. I could see flames from the corner of my eye, never having realised how loud, how noisy a fire could be: it swallowed us, an inferno echoing the one we were about to enter.

"Quickly," Torsten coughed, weak from the smoke. He fumbled for the box on the bedside table and lifted out the large piece of candy inside of it. Two cyanide capsules hidden within one piece of soft, gelatinous candy: we were to bite into it simultaneously, so that we might die at the exact same time. I wanted to swallow it immediately, wanted to take it now so that I would not die a hideous death scorched by the flames. But he had insisted on this ritual: for the last time, we made love as we passed the deadly candy from mouth to mouth, slowly wearing away the sweetness, kissing each other to death. I rode him, and with death in his mouth he devoured my breasts; he turned me onto my back and fucked me, licking at the candy that was now in my mouth, sucking it into his own mouth as he thrust into me. 

But now, the flames rose higher, higher: the wallpaper caught fire, the flames licking up the ceiling, and we knew the time had come. He laid on top of me, hard and heavy on top of me, my beloved Father's cock in my little baby pussy, perfect, perfect. 

"Now, Daddy," I said, and held the candy between my teeth. 

He snapped it in half with his teeth and bit into it, just as I bit into mine: the bitter taste of almonds burned my tongue, hideous, awful. Three minutes, he'd said; three minutes and we would be dead. I sobbed hysterically, weeping as he did, he shouting, groaning, thrusting into me so hard it hurt; I clung to him even as I felt my strength ebbing, felt my limbs growing cold.

"I love you, Laura," he whispered, the sky in his eyes now clouded, tears streaming down his face.

"And I love you, Daddy," I said, "so much."

He fell dead.

For a while, I adored his corpse, made love to it even as my own body started to die. The perfect weight of him atop me, my Father's perfect beauty even in death; even as he lay dead, I kept on kissing him, milking him with my pussy. The last thing I could feel was his death ejaculation, the way my pussy pulsed for one last time, sucking his sperm into my dead and cold womb; with one last tremor of pleasure, I, too, was gone.

***

 _And still, they say, should you walk into the forest late on a midsummer night, you can hear the whisper of the Devil and his daughter upon the wind. They say that if you sit very still among the birches and listen very closely, you can hear the crackling of flames, feel their heat upon your face and hear a pair of voices laughing: the little girl and her father, dancing forever in Hell._

***

END

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Illustration for the last few scenes [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/144269307498/i-love-you-always-have-and-always-will-until) (Not very NSFW.) Collage post (very very NSFW) illustrating the entire story [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/144109859163/fic-collage-the-fall-of-angels-part-3-of-the)

**Author's Note:**

> Freely rebloggable Tumblr announcement post for the fic [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/121429895798/fic-the-fall-of-angels-torsten-barringlaura)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(Vid) The Fall of Angels, explicit trailers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129224) by [Snowgrouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse)




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